part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | masterlist | ao3
rabbot x reader, jesse van horn x reader, brendon park x reader
summary: Youâre Robbyâs favorite reward. When his staff earns it, he doesnât hesitate to offer you up. A certain someone shows up to a party and throws things off kilter.
|| smut mdni 18+, dom!robby, polyamory dynamics and discussions, dom/sub dynamics, cuckholding, free use, heavy convos, partying, recreational drug use, shotgunning / smoking, drinking (wine), kissing lots of kissing I love kissing, grinding, dirty talk, dr desperate park, premature ejaculation, arguing, no pinv ||
a/n: due to the fact tumblr has a 'block' limit, I had to split p6 in half. though, it kind of works out? so I hope you enjoy! 16k words
"Don't tell me you're nervous?"
Robby's eyes twinkled with mirth as he backed you into the kitchen counter, his hips against yours, belly to belly as your back hit the marble edge. The counter was cool through the thin cotton of your shirt, the cabinet handle pressing into the back of your thigh while the oven warmed the room behind him.
Your mouth twitched as you looped your hands around his neck, "NotâŚnervous." you said, though your heart skipped a little beat when his big hands settled on your hips. "Just excited."
He nodded, a real smile pulling at his mouth, his eyes creasing deeper as he studied you.
"Food's gonna burn." you murmured when he only stared down at you longer while your fingers played with the hair on his neck.
"Mhm." he hummed, his hands slipping under just your the hem of your shirt. His thumbs dragged lightly across your sensitive skin above your waistband as he bent down to press a kiss to your lips. His mustache tickled, and you breathed him inâ toothpaste and whiskey on his lips.
Tonight was the night Jack Abbot would be joining for dinner.
He'd agreed to come over on a night he wasn't on shift, and Robby wasn't working either. For once, there'd be no interruptions or excuses, no run-ins that were bound to happen if you tried to meet either of them at work. It would be just the three of you sitting down together and seeing where the conversation went.
It did make you nervous, admittedly. Not enough to make you want to stop or back out, or pretend you hadn't been counting the hours until he got thereâ but it did make your stomach give a little twist every time you glanced toward the front door. Jack was Jack, and you knew him well enough to know you wanted him there. Still, wanting him with Robby in the room, wanting him after everything youâd already done wrong, wanting him now that the wanting had permissionâit made your fingers restless against the back of Robbyâs neck.
But what excited you most, though, was that the four weeks was up.
Your long, long punishment for stepping across boundary lines was finally done and paid. Four weeks of trying to be good, of no sharing and no release. Showing Robby that you could be trusted, that you still wanted to be with him. Your legs squeezed together at the thought of how many times he'd brought you to the edge only to be denied. And now, finally, that would be ending.
You weren't sure when, or how, but knowing that it was finally doneâŚ
"Little too excited, maybe?" Robby chuckled when he pulled away. His eyes dropped to the movement of your thighs, then came back to your face with a look that made your stomach squirm again.
You shrugged, trying and failing to look innocent.
"Tonight is only about discussing things." His voice was still warm, still Robby, but there was a firmer edge beneath it now. "We don't want to put any pressure on him, remember? No fun."
"Yeah, you're right. No fun." you said sarcastically.
He pinched your skin, making you yelp with a little giggle, before returning to the stove.
"Behave." he said, reaching for the wooden spoon. You smiled, even if the simple word made your face heat.
You watched him stir the pan, his shoulders relaxed beneath his shirt, one hip leaned into the counter, the deep brown hair across his forearms twitching as he flexed, moving the food around. He looked so ordinary like this. Domestic. Sweet.
You knew well and good he had his reasons for being so strict the past month. He'd explained them to you more than once, always with that steady patience of his, always making sure you understood the punishment wasn't because you were bad. You'd made a bad decision. You'd crossed a line. There was a difference, he'd said, and you believed him.
It still made guilt creep up your neck as you watched him now.
You resumed your work at the cutting board, laying out the washed lettuce and chopping with the knife, only the noise of domesticity filling the room nowâyour knife meeting the board, the sizzling of the chicken in the pan, the faint thunk of Robby pushing the spoon around the skillet.
"Go sit," he said gently. "I've got this."
You didn't need to be told twice, taking his bid and putting down the knife to leave.
But as you turned your back, you felt his warm hand latch around your arm, and suddenly pull you tight against his side.
You gasped, chest going flush to him.
The spoon was still in his other hand as the chicken hissed in the pan. His fingers wrapped around your arm, intense but not hurting as he held fast.
"When Jack gets here," he murmured, his voice different nowâ baritone and intense. It made your skin rise in goosebumps. He leaned down further, his face inching closer, voice lowering, "I want you to answer the door and give him a kiss, okay?"
You swallowed dryly, the gentle pulse that had been a distant reminder between your legs now jumping in earnest.
"Yes, Robby."
Something pleased moved through his gaze before his grip on your arm loosened.
"Good girl." he said, kissing you one last time, chaste and quick on the lips before letting go.
And as if on cue, the doorbell rang. Robby's eyes lifted toward the front of the house on instinct, and then came back to you. His mouth twitched, something knowing in the corner of it.
"Go let our guest in, honey."
Your skin went hot all at once, nerves lighting up through your chest, down your arms, into the tips of your fingers. But you tried not to show it. You only nodded and slipped away from him, padding quickly down the hall until the front door appeared.
You sucked in a deep breath, checking your reflection in the little hanging mirror above the entry table, where your chapstick and house keys laid haphazardly in the catch-all. When you made eye contact with yourself, you could see you were doing a terrible job of hiding your nerves after all. Your eyes were bright and wide, your skin dappling with perspiration as your shoulders sat just a little too high and tight.
You shook yourself. It was just Jack.
Turning back towards the dark oak door, you took hold of the handle, and opened it.
In front of you was one of the most handsome men you'd ever known.
He'd dressed nicely for you tonight. A short sleeve button up, dark wash Levi's, his emergency department shoes long gone and replaced with clean white sneakers. His hair looked like he'd run his hand through it one too many times just on the walk up the stairs, the graying short curls a little messy in the most charming way. And there was some small, careful nervousness in the way he stood there, crutches held in one hand even though he wore his prosthesis, and his backpack hung from the other shoulder.
"Hi." you said, a little shyly.
"Hey," he breathed out. You wondered if he'd been holding it the same way you had.
"Um, come in," you said, making way for him.
"Thank you, sweetheart," he said.
As you stood aside, he walked in and got closer, bending down to give you a hug, his free arm wrapping around your shoulders. You lifted your arms around him too, his shirt soft beneath your hands, the clean smell of Irish Spring and aftershave close in the collar. And before he could pull away, you held on a little tighter.
"Would it be okay if I kissed you hello, Jack?" you whispered in his ear.
When you looked back at him, a blush had flooded his cheeks, a cheeky little smile pulling at his mouth. He'd shaven recently too, you realized, though the roughness had already started to come back along his jaw.
"Yeah," he murmured, leaning down again. "Yeah. Course you canâc'mere."
You reached up, pressing your lips to his gently.
Your whole body seemed to notice it at once. It still felt the sameâhot, immediate, like stepping into a room with a fire already going. Memories threatened at the back of your mind, how possessed he'd gotten when he began to kiss you in the truck, how he'd yanked you into his lap at the first chance. Last week in the exam room when you'd asked for a chaste kiss goodbye. You wondered if he was thinking the same thing. His lips were a little chapped today, his jaw rough beneath your fingertips where your hand had lifted without thinking.
"Evenin', Jack," Robby greeted from the mouth of the hall.
You hadn't realized you'd been kissing Jack for so long until you pulled away. Robby was smiling though, one shoulder leaned against the wall, his eyes moving over you, so warm and proud that it made your heart leap.
Jack looked at him, clearing his throat with a small smile. "Thanks for havin' me, brother." He stepped forward, bringing Robby into a hug. Robby patted him on the back in greeting, squeezing his shoulder as they parted.
"Good to see you." Robby said. "Come in. Honey, will you take his things while I get Jack a drink? What'll you have? Just got his new Bourbon you'd like."
You went to Jack, taking his backpack from his shoulder, but as you held your hand out for his crutches, he kept it in his hand.
"S'alright, sweetheart. I'll keep this." he said gently, nodding down toward his prosthesis. "Wanna get the damn thing off as soon as I can, anyway."
You nodded, quickly going to set his things down in the entry way.
As you lingered in the hallway, you heard their conversation carry through the house, something about how old the new bottle was, what notes the whiskey had, whether Robby was overselling it. Jack complimented the smell of dinner cooking. It all felt soâŚnormal. Just two friends talking in the kitchen, shoes on the mat by the door. Jack's backpack looking less out of place than you'd expected.
Except your pulse was still kicking hard from a simple kiss from him.
You hurried into the kitchen, taking the auburn liquid from its decanter before they could get to it, hastily busying yourself. You poured Jack two fingers into a glass as they chatted and grabbed Robby's from where it sat on the counter, walking over to them and handing them their respective drinks.
"What a sweet girl you are," Jack cooed as your fingers brushed, taking the glass from you.
Your belly swooped.
"Isn't she?" Robby agreed, bending to kiss your cheek. "Why don't you sit with Jack at the table, honey? I'll bring the salad."
You nodded, nerves feeling jittery and your steps a little quick as you went to the table and sat by your guest.
"You mind if I get this thing off sooner than later?" Jack asked, lowering himself into the dining chair with a careful groan. The cheekiness eased out of his face for a moment, replaced by something more pained and sheepish as he glanced at you. "Not exactly dinner table etiquette, I know."
"I don't mind." you said easily, pouring all three empty water glasses full from the jug in the center of the table.
The table was set with one of Robby's nicer sets, not the fancy kind of serving plateware you had grown up around, the kind married couples got in boxes with tissue paper and little cards tucked inside. But still, the plates and salad bowls were a pretty gunmetal gray, the silverware true silver and gleaming beside the folded napkins.
Robby shrugged, uncaring as well, as he poured you a glass of your favorite wine.
Jack said a gentle thanks as you finished pouring his water, and he began to undo his prosthesis. When the end of his leg became visible, he rubbed his palm over it, letting out a deep sigh.
"Better?" you asked quietly, sipping your water to quench your parched mouth.
He leaned back into the seat, hand still at his knee, rubbing the day from it. "Yeah. Better."
Robby brought over the large salad bowl, the alabaster tongs waiting at the top. He set it down in the middle of the table, then took his seat and doled out a few helpings of salad onto each plate. He put your wine glass in front of you, then settled back with his own bourbon in hand.
For a moment, the three of you just sat there.
The table was ready. The salad bowl between you, water glasses filled, silverware laid out beside folded napkins, dinner still warm in the oven, waiting to be served. Jack had his bourbon in one hand, his other still massaging his residual limb. Robby sat across from you, one ankle hooked under his chair, his gaze moving between you and Jack with a funny look in his eyesâbut he was smiling.
Your fingers tightened around the stem of your wine glass, heating rising to your cheeks without even having to have take a sip.
"Well," you said, lifting it, your voice only a little uneven. "Here's toâŚnew beginnings. And good company."
Robby looked at Jack.
Jack looked at Robby.
A smile tugged at Jackâs mouth first, softer than usual, though with that same cheekiness that always lit his eyes, and he held up his bourbon, looking over to Robby, who lifted his.
"To new beginnings." they said together.
Dinner went normal. Natural as anything, like it was just you and Robby enjoying dinner with a dear friend. Nothing about whatever this was got brought up, whether because no one dared to bring it up first or because the conversation flowed easily enough without it, you couldn't be quite sure.
Every so often, Robby's hand would rest lightly over your knuckles when telling a story, the lines beside his eyes deep when he smiled. You felt Jack toe at your ankle once while you listened, thinking it was just a mistake, and then he did it a second time, then a third, until you began to nudge him back beneath the table. Your toe traced up the outside of his calf, careful at first, then a little braver when his mouth twitched around the rim of his glass. He took a bigger bite just to hide his own smile when you hooked your foot behind his ankle.
By the time the plates were cleared and the three of you rejoined in the living room, your belly felt warm and content, cheeks hot with the effects of a couple glasses of wine and good food.
"If it's okay, Jackâ" you said, stopping him before he could sit in the lone armchair across the sofa, his weight bearing down on his crutches as he moved into the room. "I likeâŚumâŚI like touching. For conversations like these."
"Oh?" he asked, standing a little straighter, fixing his grip on the crutches and crooking his head at you.
"LikeâŚ" You felt your heart race up a little, a bashful smile twitching at your lips. "I don't know. It helps me feel more connected, I guess. If I can reach for you, touch you." You patted the cushion beside you on the large couch. "Can you sit next to me here?"
Jack's expression softened, though the teasing stayed at the edge of his mouth.
"Yeah, sweetheart." he said. "I can do that."
He made his way around the coffee table, setting his crutches at arm's length before sitting down. The couch dipped around his weight, a long sigh expelling from his lungs as he settled his arm along the back. He was close enough that his thigh brushed yours, and the contact sent a little spark of nerves through your stomach.
Robby joined you too, just on your other side, but not before handing Jack his refilled bourbon. He gave you your wine, then sat close enough that his knee pressed into yours. When all three of you had your glasses, you lifted them one last time, the rims touching with a small clink before everyone took a sip.
"Soâ" you breathed, settling further into the cushions and looking between them, "who'd like to start?"
"Start?" Jack chortled, "I've been here for two hours. Thought that's when we started."
Robby smiled at the fellow attending just as you did. "She means to talk about the three of us, Abbot."
"Oh, I know." Jack said, glancing at you. "I just like pushing her buttons."
"I know you do." you said, rolling your eyes and chuckling. "Okay, how about this: what is something important to you in a relationship?"
"A relationship? So we're just jumping in?"
"Yeah, we are," you nodded, "What do you look for in a partner?"
Jack pursed his lips, shrugging, "I like someone kind." he said. "Not just to me, but to people around them too. Waiters, nurses. The person taking too long in front of them at the pharmacy. You know."
You nodded. "Sure, yeah. That's definitely important."
"And funny." Jack added, then glanced at Robby. "Which is unfortunate for him."
Robby's eyebrows lifted. "Might come as a surprise to you, Jack, but some people do find me funnyâeven charming."
Jack lifted his glass a little, his smile gentling. "Then they get to know you and realize it's mostly deflection."
You looked at Robby, expecting a retort, but he only huffed through his nose, one corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. You laughed too, some of your nerves loosening with it. Robby's hand squeezed your knee before settling again.
You leaned into him, resting your chin on his shoulder for a moment as you asked: "What about you, Robby?"
"IâŚlikeâŚ" he thought for a moment, his eyes on his knees then over to you, soft and warm and crinkled at the corners, "you."
You smiled, eyes narrowing, "Try again."
He smiled wider, looking away and nodding, "I look forâŚsomeone who is honest, who says what they mean. I want someone who I can count on to be there, to trust. I likeâŚtaking care of people, so that sort of thing is important. For someone to let me do that."
"Okay, not fairâ" Jack interrupted, "he already had an answer locked and loaded."
"No take backs." you teased, shrugging as you peeked over at him.
"Not taking it back, justâŚ" Jack shrugged back, "Okay, what about this? I like someone who isâŚcomfortable in their own skin. Knows how to dance through dark days. WhoâŚwants to do that. With me."
The room went a little quieter around his words, but not quite heavy. There was a stillness, an awareness of a tender wound he was showing so easily. So generously. Robby's hand moved over your knee. You took your chin from where it had rested on his shoulder to look up and over at Jack fully. He looked away first, taking a sip of bourbon with a faint pinkness at the tips of his ears.
"Very deep, Dr. Abbot." you said gently, reaching for his hand that rested in a fist on his thigh.
"Thank you, sweetheart." he nodded once, as if in mock bow, squeezing your hand where it held his. "What about you?"
"Me?" you asked.
"Yeah, you." Robby said, his hand still cupping your knee, resting their before sliding up and squeezing your thigh. "What do you want?"
You sat back a little further into the couch, thinking.
What did you look for in a partner?
Someone kind, yes. Someone trustworthy and honest too. Someone who could hold your hand through the darkness. Of course.
But also, you wanted someone who could take care of you and still allow you the freedom to choose. Someone who could see and know the worst parts of you and not just the sweet ones. Someone that could handle those selfish, scared parts of you. The parts that wanted too much.
That was the thing, wasn't it? All this want. Sometimes it felt bottomless. Maybe not every second of every day, but often enough that you knew it was there. A deep, hungry place in you that wanted to be filled with unconditional love. A reciprocated want just as deep if not more. It was embarrassing, it made you feel greedy and guilty all at once. It didn't have a clinical name for it, a nice way of asking for it.
You looked down at your handsâ Robby's on your thigh, Jack's intertwined fingers.
"I think I want someone who sees me for who I am," you answered finally, "and instead of questioning it, wants it."
Your face warmed as soon as you said it, the rest on the tip of your tongue wanting to get out, but you bit down and held it back.
"I knowâŚ" you sucked in a breath, steadying your nerves, "I know I can be a lot sometimes. Too much⌠so⌠someone who can⌠handle that, want that⌠it's all⌠I don't know."
Robby leaned forward, tilting his head so he could find your gaze, making you look at him, "You are not too much." he said, so so gently. You felt Jack squeeze your hand, and you looked between them.
Jack's eyes were narrowed in a way that flamed your faceâhe was studying you so intently you wished you could sink into the couch cushions and disappear. This was all so new to him, you remembered. Not only this dynamic that was forming and changing and being shaped, but the big conversations. It felt a little scary now to you too. Exposed, open. The three of you sitting here with your feelings out where everyone could see them.
But Jack didn't seem scared off or worried he was getting into something he wasn't expecting. if anything, he seemed softened by it, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.
"Whatâ" you cleared your throat, "what about⌠how will the three of us be together? Like⌠will you come here? Will I go to you?"
You were asking Jack, who breathed in fresh breath, sitting up a little. His eyes flicked to Robby too, including him before he answered: "I guessâŚwould it be like split custody?" he asked. "Some nights with me? Some nights with you? Or what?"
"I thinkâto startâ we should be together." Robby answered, "Just until we can get a feel for it, so no one feels left out."
"And will the two of youâŚ?" you asked, the question filling your mind and slipping out before you could stop it. "Is this a triad now? Are you twoâ"
Robby's face lit up red as anything you'd ever seen, his breath huffing a little, shaking back and forth.
"Woah, woah, woah." He shook his head, his hand lifting from your thigh to rub the back of his neck. "I don't thinkâI'm not reallyâ"
"What does triad mean?" Jack asked.
Robby's hand moved from his neck to around his beard, covering his mouth as he said, "Means you and I would also beâ"
Jack smiled widely. "I mean, Mike, you're handsome and all, but I don'tâ"
"Yeah, no." Robby said quickly, smiling despite himself while refusing to make eye contact.
"The maturity of two teenage boysâŚ" you whispered through a laugh, sitting back and watching two grown man blush and fidget.
"Oh, yeah?" Robby teased, mirth in his eyes as he raised an eyebrow.
Before you could answer, his arm came around you and pulled you back against him, turning you with such easy strength that you ended up laid across his lap, your back to his chest, your legs stretching over Jack's thighs.
"Robbyâ!" you squealed, reaching your wine glass out so it wouldn't spill.
Jack smiled, taking it from you before the wine could slosh over the rim. His fingers brushed yours for a second, then he set the glass safely on the coffee table.
"There." he murmured. "No casualties."
Your face burned as Robby's arms kept you cradled up against him. You were half laughing still, breathless from how quickly he'd moved you, but the sound caught when his hand came to your jaw. His fingers settled beneath your chin, thumb along the side of your face, turning you so that you had to look up at him.
He was smiling, but not in the same way now. The playfulness was still there, just there in the lines beside his eyes, but his grip had gone certain. Familiar in the way that made your body remember him before your head caught up.
"Count your lucky stars I don't take you over my knee for laughing at us like that." he murmured.
You giggled some more, your spine tingling when you felt Jack squeeze the tops of your legs, rubbing his palms up and down them.
"Thought you said we weren't gonna have fun tonight." you murmured with a wicked smile.
Your knees shifted apart without much thought, the movement small but obvious with your legs draped over Jack's lap. His hands paused for one little second, the three of you seemed to notice it at the same time.
"I never said he and I weren't allowed to."
Jack's palms slid a little higher over your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your knees before dragging back down. A slow massage, nothing hurried. Still, your skin lit under his hands, and the hem of your skirt bunched slightly beneath his fingers.
"Tease." you muttered.
Jack was watching his hands and the way you squirmed beneath them, a shy, sly smile pulling at his lips. Robby was smiling down at you too, thumb brushing your cheek before tapping twice to draw your attention back to him.
"Are you going to behave, young lady?" Robby asked.
You nodded, gnawing on your bottom lip.
"Somehow I don't believe her, brother." Jack said, and you could hear the smile still in his words.
"Me neither." Robby's hand tightened at your jaw, moving your face back and forth once before giving it a little shake. "You are so cute." he whispered.
You smiled wider, your hands coming up to wrap delicately around his wrist. "So are you."
"That so?" Robby asked, amusement lighting up his features.
You nodded.
"And what about him?" he asked, shifting your face so you were looking at Jack. "Do you think he's cute too?"
You nodded again. "Very."
"Aw, shucks," Jack said, a tinge of red flushing his cheeks again.
Robby's thumb pushed deeper into the flesh of your cheek as he asked: "Why don't you go show him how cute you think he is?"
You looked up at Robby, uncertain.
"Just a little kiss." he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips over the tip of your nose. "Would you like that, Jack?"
"Course I would."
"Go on," Robby said.
You sat up, your body a little wobblier now, the warmth from both their hands lingering in places that made you feel too aware of yourself.
Jack sat back, widening his thighs so you could climb on top of him. You moved slowly, hands finding his shoulders first, his finding your hips in return. His palms settled there, thick and warm around you, holding you with a care that only made your stomach flip harder. Your skirt bunched where your thighs spread to make room for the breadth of his body, the fabric pulling high. You felt your nerves light up your skin.
You bit down on your lip again, smiling, "Hi."
He smiled a little crookedly, "Hey,"
You glanced over at Robby, who was watching intently, his hand along the back of the couch, legs spread open, his bourbon back in his hand.
"Go on." he said once more, tilting his glass toward you before taking a long sip.
Slowlyâcarefullyâ you leaned down and pressed your lips to Jack's. He was so warm, and you could taste the malted rye of bourbon just on his lips. He breathed in as you kissed him, his hands moving along your sides until they wrapped around you completely, keeping you glued to his chest. His muscled arms squeezed, making you gasp, opening for him, and he let out a little pleased hum at that as his tongued dipped to taste behind your lips.
You settled into him easily then, your arms wrapped around his neck, leaning further into his hold. As you sat deeper into his lap, you could feel that bulge grow eagerly now, both of you enrapt in one another. Your head went light at the feeling, with the heat of his mouth and the slow slide of his tongue, the wet sounds of your lips parting and finding each other again.
This was a different kiss. Where the kiss at the door was sweet, easy, lingering too, it wasn't as⌠intense. That kiss had piqued your memory, where now they were coming back in a floodâgrinding down on him in the front seat of his truck, him languidly kissing your chest, the wild little panic of doing something you shouldn't and yet not being able to get close enough no matter how hard he pulled you in.
This kiss was still tender, still a little unsure, both of you retesting the motion of it in front of Robby, but that heat was there underneath. That need. The way Jack kissed like he meant it. All of it was there, simmering below the surface.
When your lips parted, your eyes caught on the shine of his bottom lip, wet and a little swollen from your mouth.
He kept you close, belly to belly, but leaned his head back and looked toward Robby while he pulled in air. You followed the angle of his face, dazed enough that it took you a second to remember Robby was right there when you looked over.
His glass rested low in his hand now, his eyes dark and fixed on the two of you, his thumb rubbing along the side of the tumbler.
You leaned down to kiss Jack's cheek, then the line of his jaw, nestling into him because you could. Because Robby was there watching and nothing about it was hidden. It felt good. Felt right. Less like sneaking away to give in to one another and more like being given the room to want it. Like space had been made for the hunger instead of everyone pretending it wasn't there.
"There is one thing I wanted toâŚ" Jack started, breath still uneven. He cleared his throat. "I just want to say it before we get too far ahead of ourselves."
You kissed just under his ear before pulling back to look at him. "What is it?"
His arms loosened around you, though his hands stayed on your hips. His fingers slipped beneath the edge of your shirt, the calloused tips brushing hot skin, and even with the seriousness moving into his face, he still touched you gently.
"I don't want to feel like⌠like I'm just a guest in this," he said. His eyes dropped for a second, then came back up to search your face. Then he looked at Robby.
"I get this whole thing, I think. Or I'm trying to." His thumb moved over your hip. "You being in charge. Telling her what to do sometimes. How to do it. And I can see she likes it."
Your face flamed. Jack's mouth twitched, but he didn't tease you for it.
"You told her to kiss me when I walked in the door, didn't you?" he added.
You looked over at Robby, gnawing on your lip a little.
Robby nodded. "Yeah."
"See, and that'sâŚ" Jack breathed out through his nose, trying again. "I'm not saying I didn't like it. I did. I do. Clearly."
Your stomach squirmed, and his hand squeezed your waist, as if he could feel your unease. He looked up at you, licking his bottom lip.
"I just don't want everything between me and you to feel like it's⌠" he went on, quieter now, his pretty eyes looking into yours. "Like I'm waiting for permission. I respect what you two have. I don't want to come in here and step over boundaries and rules, but⌠I want to be able to be with you because you want it, too. Not just Robby telling you to."
"I hear you," you whispered gently, your hands moving to his face, cupping his jaw.
His eyes softened on yours.
"So do I." Robby said. You turned slightly in Jack's lap to look over again. Robby had set his glass down on the side table, his elbows resting on his knees now, body angled toward both of you.
"I think we can set parameters." Robby said, clearing his throat. "What we both feel comfortable with. What she feels comfortable with. But you're right. I don't want you feeling like you're just waiting for me to hand you a hall pass."
"Yes, definitely." you agreed, thumb brushing over the edge of Jack's jaw. "I don't want that either."
Jack looked between the two of you, his hands still petting the warm skin beneath your shirt. "Okay, soâŚ"
"So tell us what you'd like to do." you said. "What you wouldn't like, what feels good, what feels weird. We can talk about it."
He sighed. "Geez, I feel like I'm in a therapy session."
You pinched his ear lightly. "Don't be so dramatic. It's just a conversation, Jack."
He gave you a look, but his hand tightened at your hip like he liked the scolding.
"You're sitting in my lap asking me to define my emotional needs." he said. "That's therapy."
"Your therapist sits in your lap?" you asked, crooking your gaze.
"Oh, you are a testy little thing." Jack narrowed his gaze, smiling up at you.
"Told you." Robby chuckled.
You smiled despite yourself, still close enough to feel Jack's breath against your face. "Then start with something easy."
Jack's eyes flicked to your lips, then back up.
"Easy?" he repeated.
You nodded.
His fingers spread against your back beneath your shirt, his voice low and settling deep in your belly as he said: "I'd like to kiss you without needing Robby to tell you to."
Robby's gaze moved to you.
You swallowed, then nodded. "I'd like that too."
Jack looked at Robby.
Robby sat back a little, hand rubbing once over his beard, taking the sight of you in Jack's lap with a careful breath.
"That's fine by me," Robby said.
Jack's eyes came back to yours, and the little shift in him made your heart kick. His fingers brushed up along your lower back.
"Can I kiss you again, sweetheart?"
Your face warmed, but you smiled. "Yes."
And he did, starting slow and tender again, just a gentle brushing of lips before you pulled him tighter, letting your tongue trace over the seam of his lips.
But you pulled back, just teasing, licking at his open mouth as he gasped.
"What else?"
He groaned, head tilting onto the back of the couch.
Robby chuckled from the other side of the couch, "You're killing him, honey."
"Yeah," you said, "but im having so much fun."
You leaned back, resting your hands on his chest, "Okay, what about⌠what about when we want toâŚdo more than just kissing?"
The men shared a glance, and Robby said: "I had said in the beginning that maybe we should start with the three of us together. At least under the same roof."
You looked over at him. "You want me toâŚto be intimate with you when Jack is here?"
"And vice versa." Robby said, nodding.
Your mouth fell open a little, bemused.
You'd known, in theory, that this was where the conversation would go. It had been sitting under every touch, every glance, every careful little permission Robby had given since Jack walked through the door. Still, hearing it out loud made your stomach dip, because suddenly it wasn't someâŚthing you had all been circling. It was Robby saying yes, Jack's hands on you, your body still warm in Jack's lap while Robby watched from an arm's length away.
"I actually thought, maybeâŚ" Robby shrugged, but the color rising in his face made your attention sharpen. His fingers flexed once against his own knee, then stilled. "It could be fun toâŚ"
"Go on." you said, sitting back further on Jack's thighs.
You were suddenly very interested in what was going to come out of Robby's mouth next. He looked at you, then down at your hands where they rested on Jack's chest. His jaw shifted and his eyes flicked away.
"Touch?" he murmured, eyes barely glancing at you.
That one word changed your whole face. Not because it was sexual. But because it wasn't, not exactly. It was a sign. A bid. The word both of you used when what either he or you wanted felt too tender to ask for straight on. Touch meant come here, help me say it. The need for reassurance, connection. Something as simple as your hand in his did wonders for bravery.
You reached for him at once, leaning over without leaving Jack's lap. Robby scooted closer and took your hand in his.
His palm was warm and a little damp from the glass, his fingers closing around yours in a firm hold. You squeezed once, and he squeezed back, his index finger finding the inside of your wrist. That was all it was. Just skin and pressure. Just the reminder that he wasn't saying this from across the room by himself.
You had told Jack at the beginning that touch helped you. That you liked being able to reach for someone during conversations like these. But Robby needed it too sometimes. He needed the physical proof of you there while he let himself say something that scared him.
Jack didn't interrupt. His hands stayed on your hips, but his thumbs stopped moving, studying the two of you, watching how you went about this.
Robby looked down at your joined hands, then cleared his throat.
"I think I would like it ifâŚ" He stopped, ears going pinker now. "Maybe I came home and you two were alreadyâŚ"
You kept your voice gentle. "Already what?"
Robby breathed out through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. "Already together."
"Like you're walking in on us?" you asked.
His eyes flicked up to yours, embarrassed and interested and a little relieved that you had said it for him.
"Okay," you said, nodding, but gnawing it over in your head. Picturing you and Jack together, tangled limbs, sweaty and gasping. "How would that work?"
"We could text about it first." Robby went on. "A day when you're here, that is. And I'm coming back from a shift or something. Not really a surprise. JustâŚset up like one."
Jack was looking between the two of you, one hand still resting on your hip.
"Is that something you'd want to try too?" you asked him.
He shrugged, mouth pulling to one side. "IâŚhave no idea." Then, more honestly, "Yeah. I mean, it sounds pretty sexy. Just⌠I've never done something like that."
He looked at Robby then, no judgment in his face, but like he was trying to understandâbrows pulling together, his fingers tightening and loosening on your waist.
"Doesn't it kind of go against what you were saying? About wanting to be together when we're intimate?"
Robby's thumb paused against your hand, his lips pressing tightly together. There was almost a shyness to him.
You looked over at him, squeezing his fingers. "Is it okay if I try to explain what I think you mean?"
He nodded, though his face was still flushed.
"It's more likeâŚ" You glanced at Jack, then Robby again, careful now. "He likes seeing it. Me wanting you. You wanting me."
Jack's eyes moved from you to Robby. The latter's hand tightened around yours, but he didn't stop you.
"But not if we're lying about it." you said. "That's what is different from this andâŚwhat we did before. If it's sneaky, or if he walks in and actually thinks something happened without him knowingâthat's not fun. That would just hurt him again."
Jack grimaced, looking apologetically at his fellow attending. Both of them looked at each other for a long moment before you continued.
"So we'd talk about it first, texting, plans, whatever. He'd know what he was coming home to."
You looked at Robby then, your voice softening a little. "And he likes knowing I still want him there. That when he walks in, I look for him. That I want him to see me. That I want him to do something about it."
Robby breathed out a quiet laugh, embarrassed but not disagreeing.
Jack seemed to let out a breath too, relief at Robby's reaction. "That about right then, Mike?"
Robby brought his other hand up to his beard, thumb dragging along the corner of his mouth. Still a little shy now, not quite looking at either of you.
"Yeah," he said, nodding once. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
You smiled, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles, the wiry hair there tickling your lips. Robby's thumb brushed under your chin after, fond, quietâ and for a second none of you said anything.
It felt like the three of you had actually done it. Started the conversation, not fought about anything. A good start, at least. There would be many more to come, you were sure of it.
Jack's hand gave your hip another small squeeze, and Robby was still close enough for your fingers to stay tangled with his.
For a moment, none of it felt impossible.
And then, from the other room, your phone started ringing.
All three of you looked towards the sound. It took you a second to place it. Your bag was still in the kitchen, abandoned on one of the stools from when you'd come in earlier, and the ringtone sounded too loud against the hush that had settled over the living room.
You blinked, still half caught between them.
"Is that me?" you asked, though it obviously was.
Jack's brows lifted slightly. Robby's hand loosened around yours, grunting as he got up from the couch, "I'll grab it."
You watched him disappear into the kitchen, your brain still slow to catch up with the sound. A second ago, you had been sitting in the center of something warm and strange and careful, all three of you talking around sex and rules and wanting like it was something that could be held without falling apart. Now your phone was ringing from the other room, so ordinary, and yet felt like dragging the rest of the world back in by the collar.
Robby came back with it in his hand, the screen lighting his face from below. He frowned down at the name, not suspicious exactly, just confused.
When he handed it to you, you saw Mel King glowing across the screen.
You blinked.
"Hello?" you answered, a little timid.
"Hi!"
You startled at her loud, chipper voice. She sounded like she was in a car somewhere, her words a little muffled behind the engine and the faint rush of the road.
"Hey, Mel." You sat up a little straighter. "What's up? Is everything okay?"
"Oh! Yeah, totally." she said quickly. "Sorry, I didn't meanâI probably should've said that first, right? That it's not an emergency. I forget sometimes that's how people hear phone calls. I'm a really bad texter so âŚBut no, it's okay. Everything's okay."
Your eyes flicked to Robby, who had settled back beside Jack, still watching your face with that narrowed, assessing look he got when he was trying to decode something, whether it was a differential or just your expression. Jack looked confused too, but quiet.
"OkayâŚ" you said slowly. "That's good."
"What? Oh, um, anywayâ I was just wondering if you were going to Whitaker's tonight?"
You looked between Jack and Robby.
Robby's brows pulled together, both of them seemingly able to hear Mel's voice through the speaker that held to your ear.
Jack mouthed, Whitaker?
You shook your head a little, just as lost.
"One of my residents," Robby said under his breath, tapping Jack on the side.
Jack gave him a flat look. "I know who Whitaker is, Mike." he whispered back, "My memory is just fine, unlike yours."
Robby's mouth opened, already offended and ready to retort, but you reached over and tapped his chest before he could start.
Both of them looked at you.
You narrowed your eyes and pressed a finger to your lips, and then returned your attention back to the phone.
"Uh, why?"
"He's having some sort of party!"
"Oh." You glanced down at your bare knees, at the edge of your skirt, then across the living room where Robby's glass still sat on the table. "That's nice."
"Yeah! I think so. Maybe. I don't know." Mel's voice dropped a little, the brightness wobbling at the edges. "There are supposed to be a lot of people there, and I know some of them, obviously, but not likeâŚknow them know them. And I don't know what kind of party it is. Like if it's a standing party, or a sitting party, or if people are going to be weird if I leave early."
Your expression softened.
Robby must have caught the change, because his posture eased a little too.
"I was wondering if you were going." Mel continued. "But if you're busy, that's fine. You don't have to. I know it's late notice. I probably should have texted instead of calling, but then I thought you might not see it, and then I thought calling would seem too serious, and now I'm doing the thing where I explain the whole thought process, soâŚ"
You bit back a smile. "I hadn't planned on it, butâŚ"
"Oh, that's okay. I understand if you're busy or something." she said quickly. "I was just kind of maybe hoping you would come? Just so I canâŚwell, you and I seemed toâ"
She stopped, like the sentence had gotten too personal too fast.
You waited.
Mel took a breath, audible through the phone.
"I would just feel comfortable if you were there." she said finally. "As my backup."
The words landed in you gently, but with more weight than you expected.
You looked at Robby again. His face had changed now, the confusion giving way to something quieter. Jack's mouth softened too, his eyes moving between you and the phone like he understood enough from your expression.
"I didn't know you required backup, Dr. King." you teased, because it felt easier than letting your voice get too sweet. "You're always so well adjusted."
There was a tiny pause.
"Really?" Mel asked, quieter.
You could almost hear the smile through the phone.
Your own smile faded a little, turning tender before you could help it.
"Yeah," you said. "Really."
"Thanks." she said, almost under her breath. "Well. Okay. I'll see you around then."
"HeyâMel?"
"Yeah?"
You looked between the two men again.
The night you had been having was still all over the room. Robby's warmth, Jack's hands on you, the careful conversation you had barely finished having. Part of you wanted to stay exactly where you were, to fold back into the strange little world the three of you had made on the couch and not let anything else in.
But Mel had called. And she had asked you to be there in the only way she could manage.
"I'll come."
"Oh!" Mel's voice jumped. "Are you sure? I have to tell you about this thing that Frankâ"
The sound muffled suddenly, like she'd turned away from the phone to say something, and then just as soon as she did, she was back, her voice clear in your ear, "Sorry, I mean Dr. Langdon. He did this thing today, and it was insaneâ"
"Yeah, okay," you said, laughing softly. "I can't wait to hear it! Listen, I'll text you when I'm on my way, okay?"
"Okay! Bye!"
"Bye." you murmured, holding back a smile as the call ended.
Both the attendings in front of you let out little laughs. Your head snapped up. "Hey!" you said, swatting Robby's arm. "Be nice. Mel's my favorite."
Robby held up both hands in mock surrender, his mouth twitching. "Hey, hey, she's a great doctor. She's just a littleâŚ"
"Odd?" Jack finished.
You looked at him, offended, and Jack's face changed immediately.
"I like odd!" he said, one hand lifting from your waist like he was defending himself in court. "Hey, I'm as weird as they come. Trust me when I say I get it."
"As you should, night crawler." you said, still nudging him lightly in the chest. He caught your wrist with his hand, finger engulfing the delicate joint.
"Do I at least get a goodbye kiss?"
You glanced down at him, trying for wicked and probably landing somewhere closer to breathless. The sudden dip in his tone had your heart jumping into your throat. "Dunno. You'll have to come and get it when I leave."
Jack clicked his teeth softly when you squirmed again, holding both of your wrists between his wide hands with very little effort. As if to remind you that he was bigger than you, stronger, that his arms could keep you exactly where he wanted if you let them.
"Nuh uh." he said. "Want it now."
"Greedy." you chastised.
"Oh, you've only seen the start of it."
You meant to say something back. You really did. Something smart, something teasing, something that would make Robby laugh and give you another second to pretend your pulse hadn't jumped even harder now.
Then he kissed you again, not quite so sweet. His bottom lip caught yours, teeth grazing just enough to make you inhale through your nose, and his mouth curved like he'd felt the sound before you could hide it. The kiss went wet and slow, his hand climbing into your hair while the other stayed around your wrists, keeping you close while he took one more and then another until your head felt warm and your body forgot why you had been getting up at all.
"What about me?" Robby asked.
His voice was mild, almost amused, but still, your stomach flipped just at the sound. Oh, this was going to be fun.
You pulled away from Jack with a small, wet sound, blinking like you'd been caught doing something far worse than kissing a man you had very much been told to kiss.
"Can't leave without saying goodbye to me too, can you?" Robby said, his voice hoarse.
Jack's hand stayed locked around your wrists, not letting you go entirely, so you leaned awkwardly across the space between them. It was clumsy, your skirt twisting under you and your fist bracing against Jack's chest so you wouldn't tip sideways.
Robby met you halfway, his hand coming to the back of your neck, guiding you the last few inches to his mouth. His beard rasped softly against your chin, the smell of bourbon and want on his tongue when he pushed it into your mouth. It was sharp and sweet beneath the bite of liquor, his lips moving familiarly over yours.
There was a difference to their kisses, outside the obvious physical sensation of beard versus scruff. Jack made you feel fluttery and nervous and heavy with a curiosity that only knew of wanting. But with Robby, Robby you knew. And he kissed you like he knew you. He didn't rush or show off, he didn't need to make it clear you were his, because when he kissed you, you melted into it. Completely and utterly at home in your body with him.
When he pulled back, his beard had left your lips tingling.
You stared at him a second too long.
Jack gave a low chuckle, his hands still secure around your wrists. "Yeah, alright. That's a hell of a goodbye."
Robby's eyes flicked to him, still amused, still warm from the kiss as he sat back. "I couldn't be left out after yours."
Jack frowned like he had to consider it, then nodded. "Fair. Mine was pretty good."
You looked between them, face hot, still a little breathless, then finally unwound your hands from Jack's grip, pulling down your skirt as you stood.
"What?" Jack asked, adjusting himself a little beneath the throw pillow he had pulled into his lap.
You pointed at him. "Subtle."
"Wasn't trying to be."
"Clearly."
Robby huffed a laugh into his glass, which only made you shake your head harder. You readjusted your clothes, hoping neither of them noticed how unsteady your legs were, though the silence behind you told you they absolutely did.
"You two are soâŚ" you shook your head.
"So�" Jack asked.
You looked between them, both of them spread out on the couch, smug in different ways and entirely too pleased with themselves.
You scoffed. "Never mind."
"No, go on." Robby said.
"Nope." You grabbed your phone and started toward the bedroom. "You don't wanna know." you called over your shoulder.
"Say it." Jack called after you, teasing. "Old? Cranky? Jealous?"
"Annoying?" Robby added.
"That's yours." Jack said.
You reached the archway of the door and paused, turning back with one hand curled around the edge of the wall, fingertips pressed to the opening. Both of them were watching you.
Jack still looked rumpled, flushed and smiling with one hand smoothing down his shirt. Robby sat spread comfortably on the couch, bourbon back in his hand, his mouth still shiny from your kiss, his beard a little damp at the corner.
Your stomach flipped all over again.
"I was gonna sayâhot." you said.
Jack's smile widened first, pleased and almost boyish. Robby's brows lifted, slower, his eyes darkening just enough to make you regret giving him anything to work with.
"You better be careful, honey." Robby said, his voice dropping in that awful, familiar way. "You keep talking like that, you're not gonna make it out of the house."
You grinned, backing away before either of them could pull you back in.
"Nope! I have to go be Mel's emotional support person. You two figure out how to survive the compliment."
Whitaker's house wasn't actually Whitaker's house, you remembered on the way over.
It was Trinity Santos' apartment, technically, though apartment felt like the wrong word for it. It was more like a renovated house split between floors, with a narrow downstairs hallway that led to the stairs and then up to her actual front door.
You'd changed before leaving Robby's tooâsomething easy and a little warmer, less date-night than what you had worn for Jack and Robby. Simple shorts, a top, a cardigan for the chill of the evening. You pulled it closer around yourself as you stepped out of the Uber. The cool gust of wind helped cool the ghost of the memory of Robby's warm mouth and Jack's hands on you.
They'd both insisted on driving you, but after their multiple glasses of bourbon you'd given them a very stern talking to about drinking and driving. So Robby ordered you an Uber Black without argument.
The party was loud enough you could hear it from outside the porch. You tried the handle instead of knocking, knowing no one would be downstairs to hear it. You slipped inside to the bass pounding down the stairwell, the vibration of music along the banister as you used it to guide your way up to the front door. Slipping inside, the music swelled and you could smell the heat of bodies and incense burning.
You wondered if the downstairs neighbors were just really cool, hard of hearing, or dead asleep by some miracle.
"You're here!" you heard from your left. The living room was crowded, Santos and Whitaker already sitting on the couch beside a few other familiar faces you knew well. Mel jumped up from her spot on the floor and was bouncing in front of you before you were able to close the door.
"Hey," you said, smiling. "You good?"
"Yeah," she said, then paused, "Actually, yeah. I am. Trinity is asking everyone to play a game in the living room. Want to join?"
You glanced past her, watching the card game unfold, Santos explaining loudly over the music while she rolled her eyes and talked with both hands, Whitaker already looking like he deeply regretted whatever rule clarification he had asked for.
"Looks very serious." you said.
"It's not. Seems very easy. Dennis said you just need to play to understand."
"That sounds like something Dennis would say when he doesn't understand either."
Mel smiled quickly at that. "Maybe, yeah."
"Okay, let me⌠get a drink, say hi to some people then I'll come find you?"
"Yeah, okay." Mel nodded, then hesitated just a second longer. "AndâŚthanks again. For coming. I thought this would be worse. I'm actually⌠I'm good. If you decide to not to stay long. I'm sure you had plans and all soâ"
"It's all good, really, Mel. I'm happy to be here."
She smiled, nodded, and headed back to the living room.
You turned into the kitchen, ready for a much needed vice for the evening.
Someone was standing in the middle of the room, thoughâtall and lanky with dark, gray hair, tattoos on his arms. He had one hand shoved into a pocket of his black jeans while the other held a red solo cup and a rolled paper between two fingers.
Your shoulders dropped, and you couldn't help the full smile that pulled your lips wide. "Hey, Jesse."
His gaze flitted up to you at the sound of your voice, face braking immediately into a big grin that crinkled his dark blue eyes. "Hey."
He stood a little straighter, pulling his hand from his pocket to open his arm to you, and you slid underneath it, tucking yourself into his side and bringing an arm around his middle. He was tall, your shoulder fitting just right under the crook of his shoulder, one cheek against the worn cotton of his shirt, his arm folding easily over your shoulders.
"Having a good night?" you asked over the music.
"Am now." he replied, cheekily squeezing you closer. He lifted in red cup in solidarity. "And I have off tomorrow, so I'm celebrating."
"I need a drink so we can cheers to your twenty four hours of freedom." you said, elbowing him. His gold chain necklace glinted as you saw a silent huff of laughter shake his shoulders.
There was always something easy about being around Jesse. He never crowded a room or made himself known loudly, but he was never absent from it either. He stood steady in the chaos of the ED, quiet and always ready, the kind of nurse who seemed to know what was needed before anyone had to say it. When to move, when to wait, when to put a hand on a shoulder or a firm voice into the air.
And outside of all that, he was funny. A little dorky, once you'd gotten to know him. He played guitar in a small cover band, hunted down good coffee like the hipster he swore he never was.
Cool, you thought. Jesse was cool in a very⌠Jesse way.
He squeezed you again before letting go and turning to the counter top, stretching his hand wide across the array of liquor, "Pick your poison."
You wrinkled your nose as you scanned the vodka and tequila, some bottle of something blue you didnât trust on principle, all of it sure to punish you tomorrow after the glass of wine already sitting warm in your stomach.
Jesse watched your face, the corner of his mouth tugging.
âIf youâre interested, I was actually about to go outside.â
When you looked back at him, he waggled the joint where it was held between two fingers.
You nodded, "Yeah, okay."
He reached out his hand, bony and long-fingered, and you took it gratefully, letting him lead you through the house.
The kitchen had spilled into the living room by then, people standing in the walkway with drinks in their hands, shoulders turning sideways to let each other pass. You smiled when you saw Mateo chatting with Victoria in the corner, and Whitaker and Joy somehow enjoying themselves on the couch with Ogilvie. Trinity sat on the loveseat beside them and Mel, who was sipping at her drink, caught up in whatever story someone was telling while the game went on.
You didnât stop to say hello, but when Trinityâs eyes found yours, you smiled. She lifted her cup a little from where it rested against her knee, and you kept moving, Jesseâs hand warm around yours, his shoulder turning sideways to make room for you towards the back of the house.
Outside, the air was crisp against your cheeks. The back door shut behind you with a muffled click, cutting the music down to a low thump through the walls. You pulled your cardigan closer around yourself as you stepped onto the deck, the railing damp where you leaned your hip against it.
Someone had left a citronella candle on the little table by the door, burned down to a shallow pool of wax and there was stack of empty Solo cups sat beside it, one fallen on its side.
âI never knew Trinity and Dennis had such a cute place,â you said.
Jesse shrugged, looking back through the glass door for a second, then over at the kitchen window before bringing pinching the joint between his lips.
âMe neither." he said, a little muffled, "I also never knew how much they really loved avocados.â
You raised a brow, tilting your head with an amused, questioning smile.
âThink I counted⌠like ten on their counter,â he said, flicking his lighter a few times. The little wheel scraped under his thumb, sparks catching and dying until a flame finally burned bright. "'nd one open in the fridge when I went to get a water."
A smile huffed out of you, remembering an argument between them about avocado stealing as you watched Jesse. The flame bent sideways, lighting the end of the stick in an uneven orange line. He inhaled, cheeks hollowing slightly, the tip brightening before he pulled the lighter away.
Then he looked at you with a small smile and handed it over. You took it between two fingers, bringing it to your lips, but the end had already gone out. You held out your hand for the lighter.
Instead of giving it to you, though, Jesse took a step so he was directly in front of you. He moved in closely, his hand coming up to cup around the joint near your mouth while the other held the lighter up. You couldn't help but study his face while he sparked the lightâhis cute gray curls and the salt and pepper goatee, the tiny creases beside his eyes and the blue gray circles under them that had gotten deeper since last time you saw him.
The flame sparked again, and you pulled a few light breaths until the end caught, smoke filling your mouth with skunky richness. It warmed your throat, holding there for half a second before pursing your lips and blowing it away from him.
"Thanks," you said, handing it back as he moved away. Jesse took it from you without looking away for long though, his fingers brushing yours before he brought it to his mouth.
âYâknow,â he said after a second, voice easy enough that you almost missed the carefulness, âpeople have been missing you a lot in the Pitt.â
"You guys still call it that?" you chuckled, and when he didn't reply, you shrugged, pulling your cardigan tighter where it had slipped down one shoulder. âJust been taking a bit of a break, I guess.â
âRobby being tough on you or something?â he asked.
He took another smaller hit after he said it, then turned his head and blew the smoke away from your face. The question might've sounded prying from anyone else, maybe it was. But Jesse had a way of being gentle with something like this, but in a way that made you know you couldn't get away with half-assed answers.
You took a second to answer, looking down into the yard below instead of him. There wasnât much to see beyond the deck light: a few bare branches shifting at the edge of a fenceline, a trash can near the side gate, the pale square of a neighborâs window through the dark.
"Nothing I didn't deserve."
When you looked back at him, he had his head bent a little, looking at you funny.
âWhat?â you said, a little defensive, crossing your arms.
He shook his head and handed you the joint, and you took it without taking your eyes off of him.
âSeriously, what?â you asked again, holding it between your fingers and waiting. âStop looking at me like that, Jess.â
He shrugged, leaning back. His knee brushed yours as he stepped closer to you along the rail, the wood creaking a little beneath his weight as he settled against it. He looked comfortable here, one palm planted on the top, lighter stuffed back into his pocket.
âSâjustâŚâ he began with a sigh, eyes dropping briefly to the deck boards before coming back to you. âWe get a little⌠worried.â
You'd been taking a hit when he'd said it, and you coughed on the rough pull.
âWorried?â
You handed the joint back quickly and pressed the heel of your hand to your chest, blinking through the sting in your eyes. Jesse took it, but he didnât make a joke or laugh at you for coughing. He only licked his lips, gaze steady on your face.
If you knew one thing about Jesse, it was that he was not one to pull back from this kind of thing. A hard discussion. The thing that needed saying. Heâd let other people talk themselves in circles if they needed to, but when it mattered, Jesse stepped in.
You could feel your limbs begin to get heavier even while your head still buzzed with nerves under his searching gaze. Your brain felt a second behind suddenly, too aware of your own hands, the thick lumpiness of your cardigan where it had bunched under your arms, the cold railing pressing into your hip.
"Yeah, worried, kid." he repeated. "We like to make sure our best girl is happy. That you're notâŚbeingâŚ" He shrugged, glancing down at the joint between his fingers. âI donât know. We just like seeing you. Like having you around.â
You licked your lips, unsure of what point he was trying to make, but you shrugged anyway.
âYeah. Yeah, Iâm good, Jess. Promise.â
He nodded, but he didnât look away. You watched as the party moved behind him through the glass door, bodies passing in and out of the kitchen light, the music softened to bass and a loose scatter of voices. Out here, it felt so much more quiet, so still.
You looked at him again, realizing he'd asked you something when you saw the waiting look in his eyes. âWhat?â
âTaking a break,â he said, carefully. âWas that something you wanted?â
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
Jesse took another hit, but he didnât rush you. He turned his face aside to exhale toward the yard, smoke thinning out past the railing.
âIt wasnâtâŚâ You rubbed your thumb over the inside of your wrist, where your sleeve had ridden up. âIt wasnât like that. I mean, I agreed to it."
âOkay.â
âAnd I needed it,â you added quickly, a little too quickly. âProbably.â
One corner of his mouth pulled, but he kept it soft. âProbably?â
You huffed, embarrassed despite yourself, and looked toward the yard again. âItâs complicated.â
âUsually is with you two.â
You glanced back at him. Jesse had the joint held low now, his palms braced behind him over the railing, his face quiet in the deck light. Just waiting, not pryingâbut also not letting you escape his questioning, either. He was such a nurse. Always noticing the in between of things that anyone else might miss. He was like this in other scenarios too, you remembered. Your traitorous brain picking the worst time to flood your mind's eye with memories. Making you tell him how you liked it, how good his fingers felt inside of you. He would make you tell him what you wanted him to do to you, telling you how good you were for using your words. He was always a giver, as long as you asked for it nicely.
You swallowed.
âThe four weeks are up anyway,â you said, trying in vain to keep it all so casual. âSo⌠technically, the break is over.â
For a second, Jesse didnât move, as if he hadn't heard or maybe hadn't cared. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth. It was quick, barely anything. But you caught it, and once you caught it, you felt it everywhere: in your chest, behind your knees, in the sudden warmth that pushed up through your throat despite the cold air.
âYeah?â he asked, voice lower.
You nodded, and watched as he slowly pried his fingers from the railing, his body leaning forward and then walking towards you. He stood so close your chests nearly brushed, his long, lean body looming over you.
"JessâŚ" you murmured, trailing off.
He brought the joint up to his lips, sucking in a long pull.
"Hm?" he murmured, his eyes a little glossy and red even in the dark.
He brought his boney hand to your face, cupping so gently. His finger tips were cool to the touch, soothing against your warm skin. He leaned down so that you had to lean back to make room, the hand with the joint braced on the railing beside you, the other still gentle at your jaw. His mouth opened a fraction, and he released a slow breath. Not all of it at once like an exhale, but softly enough that the smoke drifted between your faces, thin and warm as it curled over your lips.
You gasped, inhaling the herbaceous scent. Along with it, was the smell of himâpatchouli, spice and some sort of freshness. It was almost just as intoxicating, it made your head feel softer, your body slower to remember itself.
He pulled away, his eyes glossier now, licking his lips once again. He didn't move far though, just dropped his hands from your face to bring the joint back to his lips.
"One more?" he whispered.
You nodded. You weren't entirely sure if you'd have words now, your brain still lagging behind every movement.
He brought the burning stick back to his lips one last time and took a deeper hit, cheeks hollowing as he filled his lungs. Then he crushed the burnt end carefully against the ashtray on the railing, setting it aside before he reached for you with both hands, a little more eager.
His palms framed your face, thumbs near the corners of your mouth, and he bent down until there was almost no space left between you.
You opened for him too, your lips so close to his as released the smoke into your waiting mouth. It was shockingly intimate, intense, his body radiating heat as your chest brushed his.
And when he'd run out of smoke to give, you closed your mouth over his.
The kiss was cotton dry, but still warm. You barely hesitated to deepen it, your hand fisting in the cotton of his shirt, pulling him into you. He tasted like some sort of mixed drink, and for one ridiculous second, it made you wonder what his favorite was. If he liked tequila, or vodka, or maybe he was a gin kind of guy.
Then his tongue pushed past your lips, and all the silly thoughts went straight out of your head.
Both of you moaned when your tongues slid against each other, mouths opening wider, rougher, teeth clacking together in the clumsiness of it. It made you giggle against his mouth, and you felt his answering breath of laughter before he pushed his body harder against yours. He kissed so sweetly and yet so hungrily, everything intense and slow while still moving quicker than your brain could follow.
Your hand reached into his hair then, fingers sliding through the dark gray curls before you pulled lightly. He moaned deliciously into your mouth, a thick groan vibrating against your lips.
When he pulled back to breathe, he was panting, forehead dropping to yours. For a moment, he stayed there, breathing against your lips, his hands still holding your face. Then he rolled his forehead against yours before pulling away, only to press another quick kiss to your mouth.
"Definitely missed that." he said, voice hoarse.
âWhaââ you began as he pulled back, the cool air filling the space that had been so warm a moment ago. âThatâs it?â
He chuckled, his thumb brushing over your chin before he let you go.
âFor now. Besides, I think Iâm too high.â His grin came back easy and lopsided. âAnd I at least want to be able to remember the next time I get to have fun with you, kid.â
You rolled your eyes, but you could admit you were maybe a little too stoned too, feeling clumsy and giddy under the warmth of his gaze. He was so smiley all of a sudden, all crinkled eyes and pleased amusement, and it only made you smile wider too.
"Never took you for such a tease, Jess." you said.
âIf you want more, you know where to find meeeeâŚâ he trailed off, already backing toward the door with one hand reaching behind him for the handle. âCâmon. You need water. And so do I.â
You sighed, but agreed, pushing yourself off the railing to follow him inside.
Inside, Jesse made good on his promise for water.
He guided you into the kitchen with his hand loosely back in yours, then pressed a cold bottle into it before getting one for himself. You drank half of it quickly, water slipping from the corner of your mouth and down your chin, which made Jesse laugh under his breath before he wiped it away with the side of his thumb.
âHydration first, then go eat something,â he said seriously, lifting his own bottle, and licking the water from his digit.
You snorted. âYes, nurse Jesse.â
That made him laugh, grinning at you for a second before someone called his name from the other room. He wandered off toward the hall, leaving you with the water bottle sweating cold in your hand and the warm, loose feeling of his mouth still lingering on yours.
You drifted back toward the living room and found Mel on the couch, high as a kite too after someone had given her a gummy. You meant to sit with her for only a second to check in, but she was glassy-eyed and too funny about the chips in her lap, and you were still stoned enough that everything she said made you fold into yourself with laughter. The two of you ended up tucked together on the couch, sharing from the same bowl, shoulders pressed close while the party moved around you.
It felt easy for a little while. Warm. Stupid in the best way. Mel kept leaning in to say things she clearly thought were very important, only to lose her own point halfway through, and you kept laughing with your hand over your mouth, trying not to choke on the sharp salt of the chips.
You didnât notice when the front door opened again, but you did notice the change in the room. The way the voices closest to the entryway thinned out first, then the living room seemed to follow, conversation dropping until even Melâs laughter faded beside you.
âOhââ you said suddenly, realizing why the party had gone quieter, why no one was talking in the living room anymore.
Standing in the middle of the room, somehow the most shy and uncomfortable youâd ever seen him before, was Brendon Park.
He had his keys gripped in one hand, his shoulders held a little stiffly. There were no black scrubs, no badge clipped to his chest. Just a simple tee shirt pulled across the wide breadth of him, blue jeans, and a pair of casual loafers that made him look so oddly normal your brain took a second to catch up.
"Brendon?" you asked, standing up to come to him. His hair was different too, less severe. Usually it was slicked back from his clean face, but tonight it was barely brushed, dark pieces falling soft over his forehead.
âHey,â he breathed. âSorry, itâs justâŚâ He took a look around the room, the keys tight in his hand. âCan we talk?â
"Yeah, of courseâis everything okay?"
He looked a little shy, though when his eyes moved from you and to the onlookers, they darkened into that usual piercing gaze.
âLetâs go talk back here,â you offered, taking his hand in yours and pulling him away into the hallway. âCâmon.â
The noise of the party swelled again when you guided him from the room, though it muffled a little once you turned the corner. The hallway was dark except for a strip of light coming from under the bathroom door, two bedroom doors shut at the end.
âIâm sorry, Bunny,â he began with a heavy breath. âI just wanted to see you.â
âHowâd you know I was here?â
âLangdon told me, actually.â
"What?" you asked, looking back at the party, as if you'd be able to pick him out of the crowd. "Frankie's here?"
"He dropped Mel off, her DD or something he said."
"OhâŚ" you murmured, your brain scrambling to make sense of that. Frank and Mel?
"I wanted to see you, talk to you." he went on. He leaned in a little as he said it, your back settling against the wall. It was less intense than it had been the week before in the hallway, but still. Brendon had a way of taking up space without trying. His chest was wide beneath the cotton of his shirt, one shoulder angled above you, his head tipped down so his voice stayed low between the two of you.
"About what?" you asked, your voice small as a mouse.
âIâm sorry about how I acted,â he said gently, his face closer now. âI was a dick in the hallway last week. I shouldnât have come onto you like that.â
âItâs okay, Brenââ
He shook his head.
âNo. Not out in the open like that. And Abbotââ He hissed in a breath, closing his eyes for a second. The name on his mouth sounded like it took everything in him not to curse. âHe got under my skin. And Iâm sorry.â
Your hand came up to his jaw, light stubble beginning to grow there, rough beneath your touch.
âBrendon, itâs okay. I promise. I was really worked up that day and just overwhelmed.â You swallowed, thumb brushing once near the corner of his mouth. âFrom⌠not seeing anyone in a while.â
He nodded, his thick hand coming up to gently hold yours against his face, "Me too."
Your brows threaded. "What do you mean?"
His eyes were on your mouth now, and it was like he couldn't help himself, he leaned in, pressing a feather light kiss to your mouth. Then another. The third one lingered, his lips slotting against yours with more pressure, one careful breath leaving him through his nose. You welcomed it, your brain still airy and full of static, your body heavy and light at the same time.
"Miss you," he murmured against yours lips.
You hummed into his mouth, opening for him when his tongue brushed at the seam of your lips, warm and slick against yours. His free hand found your waist then, not grabbing quite yet, only settling, thumb pressing into the soft flesh of your belly beneath your layers.
The kiss stayed careful for only a few seconds.
Then his mouth opened wider over yours, and you felt the control in him start to slip. His hand tightened at your hip. His body came closer, pinning you tighter to the wall. You made a small sound into him when his hand that was holding yours against his face slid down your arm and up to your cheek, cupping your face and tilting your head back against the wall so he could gain better access to lick behind your teeth.
Fuck, he felt so good. Big and warm against you, his tongue pushing hungrily yet so gentle. You pulled it between your lips, suckling on it, making him moan.
When you let go, he was panting against your mouth, and then, his hand left your side to lean across you and push open the bathroom door.
Light flooded the hallway before he was pushing you inside, easily manhandling you onto the sink where he pushed himself against you when the door closed.
"Fuck, Bunny," he breathed when your legs wrapped around his hips. You sat on the edge of the porcelain, cold through the thin fabric of your shorts, close enough to feel him through his jeans. Thick and hard and wanting. Your cardigan slid from your shoulders, and you shook it off completely, letting it pool around you on the counter. Brendon took advantage of the movement, pushing the straps of your tank top down until your breasts spilled free, his mouth closing over one of your nipples.
You threw your head back with a breathless moan, your hand going straight into his hair. It felt so different than usual, soft and loose under your fingers, short enough that you could drag your nails over his scalp when you gripped him. He groaned at the feeling, sucking your pebbled nipple harder.
His swollen lips traveled across the valley of your breasts to take the other one into his mouth, licking and nipping until it peaked just the same. His hand came up to massage the other, squeezing it hard in his big hand.
âJesus, Brendonââ you whimpered, your hips searching for friction.
He was panting when he kissed back up your neck, and you let him. You leaned your head back to give him more room, and he sucked harder on the sensitive column of your throat, groaning into your skin. His arms wrapped around your body to pull you nearly off the counter entirely, his hips grinding into yours.
Your body was a little contorted now, shoulders digging into the corner where the mirror met the counter, but you didnât really care. Not with the way he was pushing his straining bulge against you, the rough denim of his jeans dragging against the thin fabric of your shorts. You could feel the seam of his zipper, the hard shape of him, the way he kept pressing in like he was trying to get closer than clothing would allow.
His entire torso eclipsed the light above you, throwing your body into shadow beneath him. Your back curved awkwardly against the small single sink, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, your hips tilted up toward him while the weight of him crowded you into the porcelain.
"Feels so good, Bunnyâ" he moaned, mouth wet against your neck. âHow does that feel, hm? Can you feel how hard I am for you?â
âYesââ you panted, your hooded eyes dropping between your bodies.
You watched the hard press of covered cock grind against you, watched the way his hips rocked into yours, the denim rubbing your thighs raw, hands tight on your waist. It was messy and clumsy in the small bathroom, his lips on your throat, his breath rough against your skin, both of you trying to get more from the little space you had.
âLove grinding on your sweet little pussy, Bunny,â he groaned. âMissed you. Missed touching you, missed fucking youâmiss this. Shit, oh shitââ
His hand came up beneath your jaw, tilting your head back so he could kiss you. It was so rough that your teeth clicked together as he ate at your mouth, all heat and spit and tongue, and you opened for him without fuss, hooking your ankles behind his back to pull him in closer.
"Feels so good, Brendonâoh my godâwaitâno, no, noâpleaseâ"
A building pressure was heightening in your belly, coiling down into your hips, making them tremble and ache where they tilted up towards him. Every drag of his denim-covered cock against you made it worse, the hard pressure catching just right through your shorts until your breath started to break.
"Yes," he urged, and you moaned at the lewd way he kissed you now, spit shining on his upper lip, biting at your bottom lip harder.
âI donâtâI canâtââ you gasped, fingers twisting in his shirt. âI donât wanna come, Brendon, please. Iâm n-not allowed toââ
âFuck that,â he cursed, the words broken against your mouth before his tongue pushed back inside.
âNo, no, noââ you cried, squeezing your eyes shut.
He was so hard against you. So hot and desperate, his hips losing rhythm now, grinding in shorter, rougher movements while his hands gripped you enough to bruise.
"Wish I could feel it on my cock, Bunny," he panted, "what I wouldn't do to have your tight little pussy coming around me right nowâoh godâfuck I'm gonnaâoh, fuckâ!"
His body locked up, and for a second, he looked almost shocked, eyes widening as his hips shoved hard against yours. Then he came with a low groan, mouth falling open against yours, his breath spilling hot over your lips while his body jerked between your thighs.
You kept kissing himâsuckling at his lower lip, nipping gently while his body came back to himself. Your own impending orgasm ebbed as the grinding stopped, the sharp climbing crest of the wave now settling down. Air filled your lungs in a shaky rush, your head a little more woozy than before, hips aching from the stretch of where he leaned into the cradle of them.
Brendon stayed pressed to you for a second longer, breathing hard, forehead dropping near your temple.
âShit,â he whispered, "I can't believeâŚI just..."
You let out a huff of laughter, your hands going into his hair, scratching behind his ear. You turned your head to kiss the delicate lobe, "I thought it was hot."
He shakily chuckled with you, and then finally pulled back with a deep sigh. Shaking his head and looking down, a little bashful, he cursed under his breath.
"Feel a little like a teenager." he said with a lopsided grin, reaching for the toilet paper as he unbuckled his belt.
You sighed too, letting your body melt against the sink, stretching your legs out straight before letting them back down to the cabinet and sitting up. You watched him clean himself up, a little pulse between your legs as you watched him handle his half-hard cock, sticky wet spend glistening along the shaft.
Guilt began to curl up in your belly while you watched him, thinking of Jack and Robby. Wondering if they were both still on the couch, talking about you, about what things would look like. What would they think, knowing this is where you were? Watching Brendon Park clean himself up after he left his house in the middle of the night to come find you.
"Tell me whatâs going on with you lately." he said as he looked at you again, studying your face. "Iâm sorry. I get soââ He swallowed, eyes flicking over your expression and then shaking his head as he zipped his pants back up. âYouâre soâ I guess I just miss you. I just wanted to see you.â
You licked your dry lips as you looked over at him, tapping your heels lightly against the wood cabinet under you.
"I miss you too," you said quietly, "Things are alright. Robby and I are stillâ"
âBunny,â Park sighed, cutting you off as his hands settled on either side of your hips, leaning in. âI donât really give a shit about Robby right now.â His eyes dropped to your mouth, then dragged back up. âAnd I especially donât want to hear his name when I was this close to bending you over this sink and fucking the shit out of you despite him.â
Heat rose fast into your face, and you had to bite back a smile before you could school your features.
âI know,â you said gently, reaching up to pet the back of his neck. âI know. But right now, I really donât want to get in more trouble.â
âYouâd never be in trouble with me, Bunny,â he said, very seriously. âWhatever Robbyâs problem is, he can talk to me about it. I want to take care of you the way youâre supposed to be taken care of.â
Your brows threaded, "No it'sâit's not Robby that's the problem, Brendon."
His face changed at that, darkening a little, but he still stayed gentle as he said: "So he's got it in your head that you somehow are?"
You bit your lip, unsure what to say to that.
He brought his hand to your face, thumb and forefinger pinching your chin to pull your lip from beneath your teeth. He leaned in, kissing you gently. His lips were swollen and soft from his ministrations on your skin.
âYouâre a good girl,â he murmured. âAnd this mess heâs got you in is just going to end badly, Bunny.â
His voice was still so gentle, and it took your staticky brain a moment to catch up to what he meant.
You sat up straighter on the bathroom counter, "Brendon, I don't know what you're trying to get at, but if you're trying to get me to leave Robby, it's not going to happen. He and I have agreed to what we have."
âYeah?â Park said, still standing between your legs, his hand coming back to your face when you tried to look away. His thumb caught beneath your chin, fingers firm, turning you back to him. He looked too big for the little bathroom, shoulders nearly filling the space between the sink and the door, his chest rising hard beneath his shirt.
"Listen to me, Bunny." he said, voice so soft it made your stomach twist, "You deserve better than Robinavitch. He's an emotionally stunted old man that is going to break your heart."
Your gaze narrowed on him.
For a second, you just took him in. That sharp gaze softened on you, his massive shoulders crowding the room, the swollen place on his mouth where youâd kissed him, the hair youâd ruined with your own hands.
Your hand came up to his wrist, nimble fingers wrapping around it, tightening them around the joint.
"Jokes on you, Sharkie. I don't have one."
You pulled your cardigan back over your shoulders, slid off the sink, and pushed past him out of the bathroom.
You didnât stop in the hallway, or the living room to say your goodbyes, or even when you heard your name being called. You made a beeline for the front door, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes, your cardigan clutched crookedly around you.
âBunny!â you heard Park call behind you, but you wouldnât turn around. He called again, this time with your actual name, the sound chasing you through the open door and out into the cold.
You stopped on the sidewalk, the tears youâd tried holding back spilling down your face as you brushed at them with your sleeve. You clutched your phone tightly in one hand, thumb hovering over Robbyâs name.
A hand came down to your shoulder, and you jumped.
"Hey, shitâI'm so sorryâI shouldn't have saidâoh, bunny, c'mere," Park cooed. He pulled you into his arms before you could decide whether to let him, massive and warm around you, your face burying into the center of his chest.
âDonât cry,â he murmured, one hand cupping the back of your head. âPlease donât cry.â
You didnât hug him back, but you let him hold you. The front of his shirt was soft beneath your cheek, still carrying the heat of him from inside the house. His nose pressed into the top of your head, his arms folding around you tighter when your breath hitched.
"You're such a dick," you cried between the deep valley of his muscular chest.
"I know," he whispered, kissing the top of your head. "I'm sorry."
"You keep saying that." you muttered wetly.
He sighed, the breath moving through his chest against your hair. For a moment, he swayed you a little, one hand spread between your shoulder blades, the other hooked around the back of your neck. Then he let you go, but only enough to hold you by the cups of your shoulders.
âIâm a jealous asshole, okay?â he said. âI know that. Iâm jealous Robby gets to have you all to himself. Iâm jealous he gets to call the shots with you when youâre your own person able to make your own decisions. It pisses me off, Bunny.â
"Brendonâ"
âI could be so much better for you,â he went on, low, urgent now, the words rushing and his hands griping a little harder on your shoulders. âI would be so good for you. Youâd never have to wonder if I wanted to be with you. Iâd never tell you who you could or couldn't talk toâ Iâd never make you feel like wanting more was something you had to be punished for, andââ
âStop!â you exclaimed.
The word came out louder than you meant it to, sharp enough that his mouth snapped shut. You pushed his arms down and off of you, putting space between your bodies so fast you nearly stumbled. Your face was wet again. Of course it was. You wiped at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, glaring up at him.
âYou donât get it, Brendon. And thatâs fine. Maybe you never will, and you donât have to. But I need you to stop thinking that Iâm, likeâstuck in this thing with him!â
Park looked down at you very seriously, his arms going across his chest. The light from the front door cut along one side of his face, catching the line of his jaw, the place where his mouth was still swollen from yours. He looked so handsome and so furious and so hurt. And though it pulled your heart nearly out of your chest, he had to understand.
âI chose this with Robby,â you said tersely, pointing a finger up at his chest. Your voice shook, which only made you angrier. âI want to be with him. The bullshit of the past few weeks was because I crossed a line. I slept with Jack Abbot without telling him, okay? Me. I did. Not Robby. And now thisâyou and me tonightââ
Your throat tightened around the words.
You looked away, one hand pushing hard over your mouth.
âI shouldnât have evenâŚâ You stopped, breath hitching. âJesus.â
Brendon didnât say anything. He only watched you, face unreadable in the dim light, and somehow his silence felt worse than a retort.
âI was punished for sleeping with Jack,â you said, forcing yourself to look at him again. âAnd Iâll probably get shit for making out with you in there too. And thatâs okay. Thatâs part of the deal.â
His expression shifted, jaw going tight. You saw it happen and rushed on before he could start.
âNo, donât look at me like that. Donât do that.â Your hand lifted between you, palm out, trembling a little. âThatâs what I mean. You hear the word punishment and you decide you know everything. Like you think I need saving or something. But you donât know what itâs like with him. You donât know what I asked for. You donât know what I want.â
âAnd what you want is that whatever Robby says goes?â Park asked, disbelieving.
"Yes." you hissed.
âAnd thatâs supposed to make me feel better?â
âItâs not about making you feel better!â
Your voice cracked then, and you hated that too. The whole night had cracked open somewhere you couldnât close it, and now everything was spilling out wrong, too loud, too much, too honest. You crossed your arms over your chest like you could hold yourself together physically if nothing else.
âSo all of this,â he said after a long moment, voice lowering, though a scowl still pulled his features tight, âthe crying, the pulling away, telling me no last week and then kissing me back tonight, then looking scared because weâwhat? Made out? Something weâve done plenty of times before, but because Robbyâs waiting for you at home now, itâs different? Thatâs all because you want it this way?â
He took one step closer, then stopped himself. âIf it is, tell me now,â he said, his voice so low you had to strain to hear it. âI wonât bother you anymore. I wonât come to you. You and I will be done.â
Your throat burned even worse when you looked at him now, your eyes softening and going wet again.
"I don't want you to be done with me." you croaked.
His face softened at your words, his shoulders dropping. But he kept his arms folded across his chest, still staring at you with a piercing gaze.
It sounded so childish, so quiet and defeated, completely different from your sharpness before. "I want you, Brendon. I like how you look at me. I like kissing you. I like all of it, and itâs justââ You dragged in a breath, pushing both hands into your hair. âShit is weird right now.â
"But it doesn't have to be, Bunny."
You squeezed your eyes shut.
âBut it is. It is, and things will go back to normal soon, itâs justââ You sighed, pushing your hands into your eyes until you saw little sparks of color behind your lids. âI donât know how to do this right now. I keep fucking up. I donât know how to want you and not make everything worse.â
He was quiet for a long moment.
When you dropped your hands from your face, Brendon was right in front of you, closer than you expected but not touching you yet. His gaze moved over your face, taking in the tears, the heat of your face, whatever wreckage the argument had left behind. Then his hand lifted, slower this time, giving you every opportunity to move away.
When you didn't, he pushed your hair back from your face, careful around your temples, and leaned down to kiss your forehead.
âOkay,â he sighed against your skin. âOkay. Iâm sorry.â
You sniffled and looked away.
He exhaled long and controlled, the way he did when he was forcing himself not to say ten other things.
"Can I take you home?" he asked softly, "We don't have to fix this tonight I justâŚwant to at least get you back safe."
You nodded, arms crossing in front of your chest. "Yeah, okay."
âOkay, câmon.â he murmured.
His arm came around you, pulling you in close. It didn't feel possessive anymore or unwelcome. It was just the warmth of his body against yours as he guided you to the sleek black BMW, and you let yourself be led. You leaned against him, exhausted by the conversation.
When he opened the door for you, you climbed in wordlessly, shutting it behind you with the rest of the evening.
fun fact: I have a friend in an enm relationship and she read it over and me the two thumbs up on this !! even about having someone outside the relationship trying to push that they know better for you.... mmmhmmm
summary: You attempt quitting with variable results.
cherry masterlist
warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [piv, choking, mentions of fantasized rough sex though none depicted], dissociation, mentions/descriptions of past sex work, hope, anxiety and spiraling thoughts, unhealthy coping methods, language regarding addiction, angst, sugaring, reader is a sex worker, smoking, internalized shame, self deprecation, guilt, emotional vulnerability, poverty
a/n: this was one of those chapters that I had such a clear image of in my mind but turned out the way I wanted it to, so its not a favorite of min. true pain begins next week so enjoy what little hope we have now! as always would love to know what you think! thank you for reading!
Quitting is harder than you think.Â
Restless anxiety pulses beneath your skin, stretches the boundaries of your concentration. You long for the filmy hazy of blue smoke in the air, the pacifying caress of nicotine beneath your skin.Â
The irritation and distraction and sleep deprivation alone make quitting cold turkey an impossibility. You need to be polite and calm and professional at your assistantship; you need to be able to concentrate to study for your impending exams.Â
Smoking, aside from the nicotine addiction, is comforting to you. It reminds you of the softer parts of your childhood, your motherâs crooning singing voice, your fatherâs graveled voice tucking you into bed, the scent of menthols on his shirt when you tucked your face into his chest, the sound of a lighter flicking, the strike of a match outside your bedroom window, your parents talking among the sounds of night as you fell asleep in the summer heat, still sticky from sweat and popsicle residue.Â
It comforts you to hold a cigarette between your fingers. Itâs a crutch when thereâs a lull in conversation, or a prop to start one. Youâve been smoking since you were sixteen, and quitting is easier said than done. It wastes your very limited money; it embraces you in other, more terrible, memories, acrid as tar, poisonous as a snake around your throat, and good ones, the comforting first note of a lullaby.
The smell often gives you a headache but you love it all the same, love the curls of smoke drifting through the air, bleeding through windows and porch screens.
But you donât want to smell like your mother, donât want to be reminded of your past each time you light up. You donât want to wake up and feel like youâre standing exactly where you always have been, just outside your childhood home, waiting for things to be different than they are, for your circumstances to be different than they are, for you to be different than you are.Â
When you left Joel the weekend you rode horses, heâd kissed you goodbye like he always does on Sunday afternoons. Your mind had been a turbulent sea of emotional pain that youâd only just managed to keep corralled inside yourself for the remainder of the weekend.Â
The crushing, bruising humiliation of finding out just how little he cared to share his real life had found you frantic, chain smoking, tears clogging your throat by the time you got back to your apartment.
You had felt stupid, too, because what should you expect from him? Just because heâd told you about the grief he suffered of his wife, did not mean he wanted some whore with the keys to the grief that so clearly defined him.Â
Determination was a necessary lead weight in your chest, chasing away the tears that rimmed your eyes in red, beating away the fragile, immature feelings of failure and shame and a desperation to be loved, to be enough, just fucking once.Â
Determination to change something, to follow through on quitting something just to prove to yourself that you could, had overwhelmed you, dried the tears.Â
Youâre stronger than the desire inside you, the furious, feeble need to be seen and loved.
Joel does not love you, but you feel loved by him, and maybe thatâs worse, more devastating, to feel something so obviously and blatantly a lie told by your own mind. Itâs nothing short of pathetic.Â
Youâre not in a movie; good men donât fall in love with prostitutes.Â
Little changes are important in breaking habits, a hasty, frenetic google search had told you that evening.Â
So, youâd deep cleaned your apartment that Sunday evening and late into the night, working yourself to the bone, hell bent on not thinking about why you were doing it. Thrown open the windows, scrubbed the yellow nicotine residue from the walls and floors, washed the smell from your curtains and clothes and couch, cycle after cycle of laundry, until your hands were cracked and bleeding and the only thing you could smell was bleach.
You stopped smoking insideâin your apartment, your car. You began to count campus generally as âinsideâ and stopped smoking there entirely, too. It made the act less convenient, less desirable. You slap a nicotine patch on through the day, do breathing exercises when you feel irritated, and chew gum when you get the itch to smoke.Â
It kind of works.
.
.
.
You still smoke in the evenings, though in the parking lot of your apartment building, next to weed choked gravel and dripping, rusted husks of the ancient AC units stuck in first floor windows.Â
The same logic can be applied to Joel, you reason, two days later, when the panic finally begins to fade.Â
You need to wean yourself away from him, away from the addicting pulse of his attention and affection.Â
You have to break the habit of relying on him.Â
The next weekend, you cancel on Joel, then reject the money he sends you via a payment app and then his call, too. Busy, you text, with the end of the semester. You send him a fairly tasteless nude later, though, and feel ill and used, even if it was your own doing. A reminder to both of you, thatâs what you offer him, your body and sex, but nothing else, ignoring the fact that you can dip into the savings you have, that you have a savings, because of his support.Â
No gifts, no dates, no rent money, you tell yourself while avoiding him at every turn. Cash for sex, passionless and demeaning like it should be.Â
No careful caress of his hand around your throat, no more giving up something soft, the fragile bones of a birdâs wing, like memories and your anal virginity and saying something stupid in the blissful afterglow.
You stick your hand in your underwear one evening and think of him fucking your mouth, hurting you, holding you hard and rough, coming on your face. You make yourself see him the way all the others treated you, make yourself want it, wish for it, so that the feelings will fade. You come and then cry, guiltily aware that youâre torturing yourself with a version of a man that heâs not, will never be, that youâre losing it.
Maybe some of the instability crashing through you like a bull through a china shop is from the stress of your qualifying exams, the nights you donât sleep because youâre studying so long and late that you feel lightheaded and dizzy and like you canât eat, which only makes it all worse. This is what the last two years have been for, every nasty comment, every slap, every twenty dollar bill wadded up and shoved in your bra with a laugh, you canât lose it now, fail now.Â
If you can wipe smoking from your life like a thumb through marker, you can scrub him from it too. If you can sell yourself to make it through school, you can quit him. Youâve done worse, been stronger.Â
But, like smoking, you canât quit him all at once.Â
Itâs the cardinal sin of a sex worker, getting attached, feeling something for a client that is more likely to hurt you than help you.Â
Maybe you can just stop seeing him, disappear back into the underbelly of the club, traipse back through the yawning, soul-sucking maw of that black front door, fuck whoever was there and willing to pay.Â
A terrible image comes to your mind, of you ghosting Joel entirely, him coming to find you because heâs worried. His silhouette against the wall of the club, red and pulsing and angry, as you get on your knees for someone else. Â
But you canât, and you deserve the pain in your chest, the raw aching in your hands and knees, for not being able to just let him go.Â
.
.
.
The hotel is wreathed in holiday lights when you pull into the parking lot, fat green and red bulbs arcing in great swoops over the cars, the ever trickling fountain, threaded between the drooping branches of the orange trees heavy with fruit, twisted around the front columns in a vaguely gaudy way. The pavement is still wet beneath your shoes when you step out of your car from a rare, brief rain that had sprinkled down on the drive over.Â
The lights remind you of the lights your father used to string around the porch, and feel out of place wrapped around the expensive exterior of the hotel, among the heavy smell of citrus and petrichor and oil carried on the breeze.Â
The engine pops as it cools, and your hands shake with nerves. Thereâs an open, festering wound in your chest, a hole left open and weeping. Saw toothed and hungry, affection starved, a starving, crying, desperate wolf.Â
You turn to examine yourself in the windowâs reflection, cupping your tits, wishing they sat a little higher naturally, wondering why it mattered.Â
Itâs only been a couple weeks.Â
Youâve only missed two weekends with him, with a handful of mostly carefully avoided phone calls between, but it feels life months, years. Your skin is desperate, hungry for his touch, his hands on your body, handling you in ways no one else ever has.Â
Something you hope to end, clean cut, in person. Done.Â
The feeling doesnât fade. And desperation makes you close your eyes and rub the ache that springs up between them with your thumb.
You arenât sure if you want to, or should, sleep with him one last time. Would it hurt both of you more? Would he care?Â
Would it hurt more if he just shrugged and got in his truck and that was it?Â
You dig a carton of cigarettes out of your bag, futilely flicking a faulty lighter over the end, anxiety pressing further up your throat with every moment that passes without the flame appearing, that sweet first inhale of calming smoke in your lungs.Â
Itâs your first cigarette of the day, and you almost feel proud of yourself for abstaining.Â
âCherry?âÂ
The lighter clatters out of your hand as you jump and look up to find Joel mere feet away, keys in his hand. You hadnât heard him approach and that makes your anxiety spike sharply, a response to walking to your car alone so many weekends after nights spent with strange men. The last hurtle, getting safely back to your car.Â
âJoel,â you murmur, the anxiety spiraling in tight coils within you peaks and then eases off. The will to quit him, to tell him your arrangement needs to end, instantly dissipates, vanishes into thin air as though youâd never had the thought in the first place. Itâs replaced instead by a comfort and calm that belies all sense. âHi, sweetheart.âÂ
You hear the relief in your own voice, the purr it automatically drops down into, the curve of loosened, rounded vowels.Â
The relief is replaced almost instantly by guilt, for not seeing him, for being happy to see him when you were the reason you hadnât seen each other.Â
His shoulders loosen and he continues forward, stooping to pick up your busted lighter with a grunt. âI got one,â he says, digging in his front jean pocket.Â
He has the grace not to say anything about you smoking, not even something teasing, as he places the lighter in your hand and curls his fingers around yours. You jerk back for just a moment, the last vestige of your will to release him from the burden of you, before you melt into it.Â
Not before you see the flash of hurt across his features.Â
Youâre finally able to light up, and Joel doesnât release your hand.
Joel said he would quit, too, when you told him numbly in his truck after seeing his house, to make it easier, to not have cigarettes on offer for you anymore.Â
Itâs sweet and you wish you could hate him for it. He shouldnât care, but he does. It shouldnât matter to him, but it does. Or maybe he blames you for starting up the habit regularly again, and itâs a good enough excuse to stop.Â
Apparently also still carrying a lighter around. For you? Orâ
âAre you still smoking, Joel?âÂ
He clears his throat a little awkwardly, crossing his arms as he leans against the side of your car. âHarder than I remember it being the first time around. Quittinâ.â He shakes his head and looks away from you, jaw tightening. âMade it easier to cope.âÂ
âCope with what?âÂ
His gaze latches onto yours, and he waves a noncommittal hand. âJust,â he starts too loudly, a poor lie. âNothinâ. Nothinâ.âÂ
You smile. âOkay, cowboy.â Â
You inhale greedily and hold the smoke in your lungs until an ache convulses in your chest.Â
The cloud of smoke lingers around you in the still air when you breathe out, before passing the cigarette to him. He takes a long drag, eyes not leaving yours. âYou okay?âÂ
âLong day,â you murmur softly. âIâm all right.â
He grunts softly, and steps closer to you. âLong couple weeks. Longest I havenât seen you, Iâd reckonâ
You can tear your hungry eyes away from him, the thickness of his arms across his chest, graying hair, the veins in his hands. The sky is a satin pink behind him, whisps of violet, bruised clouds still dissipating in the distance.
âEnd of the semester,â you shrug and smile, trying to remember that youâre supposed to be putting distance where thereâs familiarity, quitting him like a bad habit, and not quite managing it.Â
The itching memory of him is like something rough dancing over your skin. You want to pick it off, scratch it outâ
You want to be stronger than you are, tell him things between you have run their course, but you canât make yourself. You arenât ready to release this feeling in your chest. Even if ending it would make things easier.
You donât want to hurt him, then feel stupid for thinking you could. He threads your fingers together, keeps them knotted in a little nest against his chest. âWell, Iâm glad you made it out now.âÂ
âSorryââ The word pitches out of you, splatters on the ground in a messy heap.Â
He shakes his head, watches you carefully as you shakily lift the cigarette to your mouth again and inhale. âI know youâre real busy.â He clears his throat a little awkwardly, like thereâs something he wants to say or ask, but ultimately doesnât.Â
You step closer to him, into the circle of his arms, smoke curling in looping patterns around your head like cancerous halos. âI missed you,â you murmur, and that, at least, is true. Heâs an ache in your bones, wire wrapped around your throat.Â
But you feel soothed now, under a street lamp with him, smoke unfurling against a pink sky, tugging you closer. Something like peace settles in you.
âMhm.â You pass the cigarette back and forth, until itâs down to the filter and drop it to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of your shoe.Â
âLet me take care of you.â You murmur, gripping the front of his shirt in both your hands, an apology with your body on offer. Youâll do anything he wants. âJoel?âÂ
He reaches up and cups his hands around your wrists. His thumbs stoke slowly along the inside of your wrists. âYou sure youâre okay?âÂ
âMm.âÂ
He tilts your face toward his.Â
Itâs fine that you let him stoke your arm and lean his face close to yours. It means nothing, the way it always means nothing with men. Joel means nothing, his touch means nothing. If you wanted, you could step away and say things need to end. You know you could, but you donât, you drift closer, the sea pulled by the moon.Â
You could stop the tide, you think desperately, you could stop the march of time, the circle of the planets; you could lean down and hold your torch to the field and watch it all burn.Â
But any remaining resolve to do so has fled. Youâre too comfortable, too willing to sink against the warmth of his chest, the lull of his voice.
He clears his throat again and eyes flicking over your face before landing on your eyes. The hesitation only lasts a moment longer, before he comes out with it. âYou wanna come out with me this eveninâ instead?âÂ
You blink, surprised, letting Joel draw you in closer, tighter, until your hips are flush against his. His hands anchor low on your hips, at the curve of your ass. âOh Joel,â you coo, âyou know Iâll go anywhere with you.â You look at him from beneath your lashes. An expression flashes across his face, so brief and esoteric, you wouldnât even dare to hazard a guess at what it meant. Despite yourself, you brace.Â
His hand flattens against your spine, travels up and down your back, until your muscles release. âSo whatâs your real answer?âÂ
You feel dizzy with the sudden twist, your thoughts forced elsewhere.Â
A thread of anxiety wraps around your belly and squeezes tight, biting, like razor wire. Anger surfaces next. Heâs not following your script, knows too much. The feeling of his tranquilizing hand circling your spine suddenly feels like sandpaper, gritty and rough, scraping you raw and naked.
âCâmon,â he teases, tapping your hip gently, his shoulders finally loosening, âit ainât a hard question.âÂ
You suck in a breath to steady racing thoughts, the wonder and fear that mix in your gut that he knows just what to say and do to calm you, that he knows the steps of your dance well enough to avoid your feet. You try again for coquettish, trying to recapture the familiar playfulness. âWell, do you want me to fuck you here or there?â
But he evades your pull into your familiar pattern again, gives you nothing to orient yourself around, to his wants. When did you get so fucking obvious? Youâre better than this, better than that at this. âI wanna know what it is you want to do.âÂ
It gives nothing away, about what he wants you to say. You donât know the right answer, the next step, and youâre left floundering. âWhere would we go?â You ask eventually.
âItâs a surprise.âÂ
For a moment, you consider slipping your hand between your bodies and grabbing him through his jeans, whisper I want you to fuck me, seductive and just a tad whiney.Â
It would make things simpler. It would make quitting him easier, when you got around to it.Â
But his hand is soft on your cheek, like caressing, protective armour, and youâre tired.Â
You desperately want to close your eyes and let him lead you toward a surprise, toward something you get the sense heâs sunk a lot of thought into.Â
âSurprise me, then,â you say softly, the words barely audible, voice stolen from the cave of your mouth. âJoel.âÂ
âCherry,â he answers, just as gentle. âGood girl. Knew youâd make the right choice.âÂ
Oh.Â
How are you ever going to give him, give this, up?Â
His hand is a familiar warmth on your spine. The longest dance youâve spun through with him, leading you across the parking lot, offering a hand up into the cab.Â
Joel braces an arm against the top of the still open doorway and looks at you for a long moment. âWhat?âÂ
âNothinâ.â He shakes his head, then nods once and looks down, his other hand anchored on his hip. âGlad youâre here, is all.âÂ
âYou just want to see my tits.âÂ
âWouldnât mind it,â he answers, grinning suddenly back. âBut I mean it. Donât know what to do with myself without you on the weekend.âÂ
âThereâre other girls, Joel. Can recommend a few.âÂ
He shakes his head slowly. âNo there ainât.âÂ
.
.
.
He drives with one hand on your thigh and the windows down, and catches you up on what he hadnât been able to relay in your short, infrequent phone calls over the last few weeks.Â
You forget why you need to quit him, release him back into the sea, watch the silver flash of scales disappear beneath a wave, an addict surrounded by your fix. But then heâll mention the ranch, and all those photos, all the things youâd agonized over, will flash through your mind.Â
You wonder if youâre being fair, or rational. If maybe youâre pushing him away because you arenât really sure what it means to be close to someone, like this or otherwise.Â
Given the chance, maybe he would tell you more about his life in time. Itâs a rough thing to bring up unannounced to anyone, let alone someone like you. Your stomach twists into thick knots, the threads of all the things unspoken between you wrapping around your throat like a vise.Â
Maybe the short of it is that you arenât worth telling, that maybe you arenât worth much at all, despite the way he makes you feel.Â
But some part of you wants to believe itâs all still possible, that you could confess your lie and Joel would understand why youâd done it, that he hadnât meant anything to you yet, like you hadnât meant anything to him yet. That he would see past that number, past the guilt and shame, to the connection you share, and tell you itâs okay, it doesnât matter much, not between the two of you.Â
Humiliation and fear and self-hatred follows the bubbly pink hopefulness. Only someone delusional would have hope for something like that. To wish to sit in a confessional with your lover and still not be enough.Â
Because it wouldn't be, even if Joel was okay about the age difference, the lie, and the things he hadnât told you were because it was too painful to speak about and not because you didnât belong in his life and he doesnât want you there. Even if all of that were true, you are too indebted to him for it to matter.Â
You live off of his money. Entering into a real relationship. . .you wouldnât be able to survive, and to have him finance your life entirely, receive nothing in return, not even the myth of your body, is unthinkable. Confessing means giving up more than youâre willing to admit, it means not being able to afford your apartment, it means giving up on school, the thing youâd done so many horrible things for.
The most rational part of you knows none of it matters. No man wanted to enter into a dependent relationship with a used up whore.Â
Youâll never know if you donât just say it, but youâre terrified.Â
Itâs easier to just break things off, and never find out where you stand. The thought of going back to the club, fucking men that arenât Joel, to learn again and again what they want, who youâre supposed to be for them, makes your throat close.Â
âBaby? You hear me?â His voice filters in from a long distance, then surfaces all at once. The wind is soft and sweet against your skin. The truck smells like desert air, laden with the scent of red dust, sagebrush, and lavender, mixed with softened leather and the smell of Joelâs skin, sun warmed bergamot.
âNo,â you murmur. âSorry, sweetheart. Say it for me again.âÂ
He shakes his head and squeezes your thigh. âJust askinâ how your exams went.âÂ
âOkay, I think,â you hazard. âIâll know more after the holidays.âÂ
âSure you aced it,â he says, voice soothing and gentle. âMy smart girl.âÂ
Butterflies flutter in your chest, prideful. Heâs pretty washed in the last orange rays of the sunset, shadows playing across his veiny hands, his wide spread thighs. âIf you want me to suck your dick you can just ask.âÂ
He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. âJesus.âÂ
âSay it again.âÂ
âWhat?â His voice is light, teasing.
âYou know what.âÂ
âMaybe I want you to hear you ask it.â His fingers trace up and down your thigh, leaving imprints of warmth on your skin, the air cool in the wake of it. âLike it when you need somethinâ from me.âÂ
You tilt your head, watching him, the strong line of his jaw, the cast of his eyes over the road. His hair is longer than when you first met him, curling behind his ears. âYou know I like you even when I donât need something?âÂ
âThat so?âÂ
âMm.â You reach over to stoke the backs of your fingers over his beard. âPlease say it again.âÂ
âWell, how could I say no to that? My girl,â he says, and you like that even better. âMy smart girl. I know you aced it.âÂ
Something self satisfied curls around your ribs and licks down your spine. Instead of answering you unbuckle your seatbelt and push yourself across the bench seat, rebuckling the middle belt across your lap, just to be closer to him.Â
You lean your head on his shoulder and feel his body relax, sinking back into the worn leather. âTell me where youâre taking me.âÂ
âWeâre almost there,â he answers by not answering you. âWe got a little time though. You hungry?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âYou wouldnât say it if you were.âÂ
âThatâs not true.âÂ
âWe donât have to have sex.âÂ
Guilt, shame, teasing threads of humiliation and treacherous hope, that he knows you donât like to have sex when youâve eaten, that this is the second time since youâve known him that heâs reassured you your hunger came first.
âJoelââ
âOr you can just lie there for once and Iâll do all the work.âÂ
âNot sure your knees could stand that.âÂ
âFunny.âÂ
You giggle and wave a hand before you, swatting away errant self ridicule. âFor the record, you do do most of the work. But if I knew where we were going I could tell you for sure if we should stop for something to eat. Does this activity have snacks?âÂ
âIt does.âÂ
âThen Iâm really good.âÂ
He seems satisfied with that as the sun disappears and darkness settles around you, like the spill of ink across the velvety folds of midnight blue on the horizon. The rest of the drive is quiet, the steady drip of old country songs from the radio, crooning on about love more often than not.Â
The land beyond the windshield is rubbed in charcoal, acres of empty land broken only by cacti and yellowing scrubbrush. A crescent moon rises on the horizon, a bedrock of stars. Youâre just starting to drift off when the truck slows and turns off the highway, onto a dirt road that winds on until a neon sign appears.
 âA drive-in?â You murmur sleepily.Â
His cheek brushes your forehead, you want to believe heâs kissing you. âEver been to one?âÂ
âWhen I was really little, I think.âÂ
âUsed to come here with Tommy when I was a teenager,â he says as he brings the truck to a gentle stop behind the trail of red tail lights leading into the distance. âOn weekends usually.âÂ
âTo make out with girls in the backseat of a car?âÂ
He chuckles, the line inches forward. âMore Tommy than me.âÂ
Yet he was the one who accidentally got someone pregnant at nineteen. A mistake you know he wouldnât change for anything, but that had altered the path of his life. He had also been a teenage boy that had taken responsibility for things, that ended up the primary and then only care for that child. Itâs rare, so rare, and you donât think he realizes it.Â
He thinks nothing of it.Â
You wonder what he was like as a kid, a teenager. If you would have met him then, at the same age, would you have liked each other? Would he have made out with you in the back of some car?
But in this reality, when he was nineteen, you werenât yet born, and wouldnât be for several years. You age gap spans lifetimes, and he would have been like to met your mother then.Â
âIâm sure you broke your share of hearts,â you tease, not lifting your head from his shoulder. âWhat movie are they playing?âÂ
He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. âA double feature. Couple old westerns.âÂ
âMust be real old then,â you say without thinking.
 But Joel just laughs. âWatch it,â he says softly. âI did watch âem when I was a kid though, and they were old then, so I doubt youâll be overly familiar.âÂ
âSo you just needed some company to watch a movie.âÂ
âAinât that what you are?âÂ
He means it as a joke, you can hear it in his voice, but it sinks a heavy weight in your chest. You sit up straight, leaning away from his shoulder.Â
âDid think you might like it though,â he muses, unaware of the turmoil rolling around inside you like a loose marble, knocking into every live wire nerve inside your body, scratching a hand over his beard, nodding to himself. âLots of horses in âem.âÂ
The whirring, anxious part of your mind settles again and you snort. âDonât make it weird.âÂ
Itâs finally your turn at the ticket booth, Joel forking over twenty dollars for the two of you in exchange for a pair of speakers and a cragged, ripped ticket with the number twenty-two stamped into it.Â
The number makes your stomach give a vinegary, sour squirm. It feels like an omen, a reminder from a force bigger than yourself.Â
âWhatâs the number, darlinâ?â Joel asks as he navigates the rows of cars.Â
You crumple the paper in your fist and smile. âTwenty-two.â If the expression on your face betrays the tightness squeezing around your ribcage, roping around your heart it feels like it might pop, Joel doesnât say anything.Â
He backs into your allotted space, and pops open his door.Â
Youâre still gathering up the speakers when he opens your door. âJoel?â He cups his palm against your elbow. âMaybe it would be better to park the other way?â You ask, worried about sitting on the tailgate for so long, unforgiving metal against the backs of your thighs and legs in a skirt, even if it is longer.Â
But the worry is unfounded, because he reaches into the tiny backseat of the cab and retracts several blankets.Â
âOh.âÂ
âUh-huh,â he taps your thigh, gently nudging you out of his way. âYou think Iâd let you sit like that?âÂ
âListen, baby,â you begin, a complaint on your tongue. âThe amount of men who would let me bruise my tailbone on their tailgate is astounding.âÂ
âDonât doubt it, Cherryâ he says, lowering the gate. âI ainât them. Tailbone is safe with me.âÂ
You rub a hand up his spine, lean in close so your mouth brushes his ear. âI know. The whole area, shall we say, is safe with you.âÂ
âJust sit down,â he grumbles. âAccussinâ me of makinâ out with girls here. How you think I accomplished that?âÂ
âSo you did,â you poke him in the side. He grunts and it sounds half like a laugh. âHeartbreaker,â you accuse. âAnd a gentleman. Rare. Very rare.âÂ
âUh-huh,â he grouses, pushing a folder blanket into your hands, âWhy donât you just go on and fix that how you want it, honey?âÂ
Chuckling, you perch at the end of the truckbed and help him unfold a couple of thick blankets, shifting to your knees to fix the edges. His hand lands briefly on the back of your thigh, sliding up and down before he retracts his touch. âAll good?â You ask.Â
âMm. What do you want to eat?âÂ
You lie back, legs dangling off the end of the truckbed. Joelâs hand curls around the back of your knee in the dark, thumb stroking the soft skin there. Itâs automatic, natural, the way he slots between your legs.Â
âPopcorn, of course.âÂ
ââCourse. Anything else?âÂ
âCan we eat somewhere else later?âÂ
He looks surprised but only for a moment. âYep. Anywhere yâwant.âÂ
You nod and sit up, sliding your fingers up his forearm, before moving to the back of the truck and adjusting yourself amid the pillows and blankets. He chuckles. âGuess Iâll go get it myself then.âÂ
âDâwant me to come?â You ask, resting your cheek on the cool metal side of the truck. âI can come with you.âÂ
He shakes his head, strokes your cheek gently when he moves to the side of the truck. âAnything else, princess?âÂ
âDonât call me that, cowboy.âÂ
âWell?âÂ
âCoke,â you cup your hand against his, press it more firmly into your cheek. âCherry coke.âÂ
He rolls his eyes, crinkling pleasantly at the corners. Your belly tightens. âWoulda been worried if you didnât want cherry.âÂ
His hand slides away from your face and you watch him walk away, toward the glowing neon of the concession stand that you can just make out in the distance. The lot is all trampled, dusty dirt, shouting children and chattering adults, a looming blank white screen in the distance. The blanket is soft against your skin. The cooling air still holds the dayâs heat in greedy fingers, but you feel lazily content.Â
Curdling, curling, vulture-like anxiety of the last few days, a faded afterthought. Worry seems very far away as you turn your face up and watch the stars wheel overhead, like holes in the night sky, like criss-crossed, pinioned wings of something ancient.
Joel returns just as sleep begins to embed itself in your veins, the looping angularity of his scent billowing up from the blankets like a softly sung lullaby.Â
âCher?â The bed of the truck sinks with his added weight. The backs of his fingers brush your cheek as he settles in, leaning back against the stacked pillows.Â
âJoel. Are we going to make out?âÂ
âSure, if you want.âÂ
You grumble and take the fountain drink he offers you as you sit up. âDonât sound too enthusiastic about it.â
He shakes his head, mouth twitching. âHold on, honey,â he says, layering his hand over yours. Condensation from the cup cool on your wrist, beading down your arm. âThey didnât have cherryââ
âRegular is okay.âÂ
âWell, it ainât that either. They had cherry syrup, had âem put some of that in.âÂ
âYou didnât have to do that.âÂ
âWell, it might taste like shit so donât get impressed yet.âÂ
You take a sip, raising a brow at him.Â
The first gulp is all syrup which makes you cough and Joel laugh, but when you mix it, itâs pretty good. âIf I said I hated it?âÂ
âGuess Iâd go back.âÂ
Itâs too familiar, too gentle, the way he wraps his arm around your shoulders and settles back with you. The flickering white light of the screen playing across his features, blinking down from ten. You curl into his chest with your drink and resign yourself to this not being the day you quit.
Itâs so easy to fall into the familiar grooves of your relationship, just like the weekend you had ridden horses, you begin to forget, to dream again of a life where you arenât his sugarbaby, one in which your age doesnât matter. To dream of a world where you open your mouth and tell him the truth and everything works out.Â
The movie is entertaining in a gimmicky kind of way, shootouts and ragdolling bodies and weeping widows and towns that need saving by a lone man with a gun and a horse, full of desert vistas and stilted dialogue.
âHe looks like you,â you tell Joel of the main character, gruff and grumbly.Â
âI do not,â he says, stoking the skin of your hip where your shirt had ridden up.Â
âJoel, heâs your spitting image. He even plays the guitar like you,â you point at the screen as the cowboy in question finishes cleaning his gun to put a guitar over his lap and begin strumming it, the red flicker of the onscreen camp fire illuminating the plains of his face, a dog at his feet.Â
âMaybe I was lyinâ about that,â he says, sarcasm thick in his graveled voice.Â
âAnd here I was hoping you might sing to me one day.âÂ
Heâs quiet for a while after that, fingers stroking your spine, pulling a spare blanket over your shoulders when you shiver once, just slightly. His chest is warm; the steady thud of his heart, the heady, thick scent of his skin.Â
A brief window of anxiousness flares within you when you feel too settled, brushing salt and grease from the hot, buttery popcorn on your fingertips against a napkin. You think to offer to jerk him off under the blanket but ultimately let the nervous thought fade away. He clearly wants this, as it is, for whatever reason.Â
Thereâs an intermission between movies, the corny soundtrack playing as people get up to stretch.Â
Youâre plucking cherries out from amid the ice in your cup, left over from the syrup, tying knots in the stems and handing them over to Joel who lines them up like prizes on the edge of the truck.Â
âWant some more?â
âIf you please, baby.âÂ
He takes your cup with him, and you wolf whistle as he walks away. It draws a few looks, and maybe thatâs why a few minutes later, Tommy Miller and a woman you vaguely recognize from photos are standing at the edge of the truck while you adjust your top even though you're decent and covered and not even wearing your old club clothes.Â
Tommyâs smile is easy, his hand against the womanâs back. âHowdy, I think this is my brotherâs truck. You know him?âÂ
âJoel,â you blurt. âYeah, yes.â
He waits, clearly waiting for you to offer who you are and why youâre there.Â
You have never had to confront someoneâs family members, mainly because you fucked them once and never saw them again but youâve known Joel for close to a year now, and his brother is standing in front of you with a woman close to his age that must be his wife, and he doesnât know who you are or what your name is or that youâre his brotherâs whore.Â
âI, umââÂ
The smile starts to slide off of Tommyâs face at your lack of explanation. Your throat feels dry and you donât know what to say. What can you say? That will satisfy them enough that theyâll walk away and that also wonât cause problems for Joel? Whatâs a good enough excuse that he would have a twenty-something in his truck?Â
Thankfully youâre saved from answering by the sudden return of Joel, carrying your drink. âTommy.âÂ
âHey, big brother.â Tommyâs face lifts back into a bright smile.
You feel suddenly very young and out of place, like a child sitting at the adultâs only table, curled on your knees while the rest of them stand in a half circle, unreachable. For one horrible moment, it seems like Joel wonât introduce you, that youâll sit there, so close and far away at the same time.Â
A physical, stark reminder that you donât belong, even if you and Joel might be deluded enough to believe it, no one else ever would. Itâs even worse than the photos youâd seen. An adrift, lonely feeling snags around your heart, webs over the already festering, breaking wounds, desperately tries to hold the splintering fragile pieces of you together. A drifting disconnection pressing in at you, the way it hasnât in so long.Â
The air is wobbly and creased with wavering, pale light. You feel far away from yourself, disconnected from your body, which used to happen all the time but doesnât anymore. Not since Joel, not since you havenât had to sleep with random men each weekend that might do anything to you.Â
Your chest hurts, and itâs a little hard to breathe.Â
A whine in your ears makes it impossible to hear them.Â
ââmy brother, Tommy. His wife, Maria.â The sound of Joelâs voice is submerged in water, lost beneath icy waves, but it draws you closer to the surface, and you can almost see the sun beyond the crushing roll of the surf. âTommy, Maria, this is Cherry.âÂ
âHi,â you say, voice steady, bubbly, despite the dizzying rush of full bodied sound pulsing through your skull all at once, the static noise of the projector pulsating a grainy grayish-white behind them, the staccato sound of overlapping voices. âNice to meet you.â You almost say youâve heard a lot about him but you arenât sure how much youâre supposed to know, so you shut your mouth and smile, pleasant, relaxed.Â
You shake their hands in turn.
âWhat are you two up to out here?âÂ
âYouâre actually crashing my date, little brother.âÂ
You think itâs funny how they call each other that, little brother, big brother, very much trying not to focus on the other part of his sentence, buoyed by it. But what else should he say?
Hey Tommy, this is my prostitute?Â
Sure.Â
âDate, huh? Someone finally loosened my brother up enough for that?â Tommy is looking at you closely, his hand still around yours. He loosens his grip and lets your hand fall. âWell maybe weâll see you at the next family get together.âÂ
Not a chance in hell.Â
âWell I am a party kind of girl.âÂ
âWeâll leave you to it.âÂ
Joel and Tommy say their goodbyes, Maria eyeing you with a gaze that says she knows, or at least suspects, and doesnât approve. Her stare is icy when it lands on Joel. Confusion pounds behind your eyes, that her ire is directed at her brother-in-law and not at you.Â
After they walk away, Joel hands you the new cherry coke and doesnât comment on what just happened. âThey know, Joel,â you say softly, just in case heâs in denial. âMaria definitely does.âÂ
He nods. âYep, and she ainât exactly happy about it.âÂ
He doesnât seem concerned as he sits next to you again, shoulder pressing into yours in a vaguely comforting way.Â
âArent you worried theyâll think youâre a dirty old man?âÂ
Itâs the worst possible joke, at the worst possible moment. The flat delivery of your voice doesnât help, but you still feel shaken.Â
He laughs, âMaybe Iâm embracinâ it.âÂ
Where the encounter has planted a knot of worry deep inside you, writhing and alive, itâs seemed to have calmed Joel. He takes a sip of his own drink and seems buoyed. You canât parse it, peering up at him from where he tucked his arm around your shoulders, the way his mouth twitches.Â
âRelax,â he says gently. âYouâre all right, baby. It ainât nothinâ to worry about.âÂ
The screen flickers, and another title screen appears.Â
You feel all right, strangely, in the cradle of his arms, with his careful reassurance in your ear. And however contrived it might be, to get you through the next movie in peace, you donât care. You let the worry ease out of you.Â
If Joel was really okay with his family seeing him out with you, seemed unconcerned by it, then you shouldnât worry about it either.
But a nugget of unease lingers, wedged between your ribs. Mariaâs livid gaze. She would say something to her husband, who might just have something to say to Joel about it.Â
It doesnât stop you from falling asleep on his chest, listening to the even, relaxed sweep of his breath through his lungs.Â
.Â
.
.
When you wake, itâs eerily quiet.Â
The hum of conversation and the scratchy play of the old movie is gone, replaced with the empty sound of wind flowing across desert, the rustle of scrubby grass and chitter of small creatures. The night sky is a fathomless, deep black, the stars a bright streak through the middle.Â
Joelâs arms are tight around you, breath slow and even against the back of your neck. Heâs sleeping. In the middle of nowhere, in the dark, with only a crescent moon, perched thin and curious in the corner of the sky.Â
Thereâs something untouchable, and far away about sleeping beneath the sky. It makes you feel small and insignificant, but in a pacifying way. Youâve made mistakes, inadvertently and of your own choices, but what did any of it matter in the grand scheme of the universe, the stars chasing themselves around the heavens.Â
âJoel?â You mumble, rubbing his forearm curled over your belly. âI think weâre alone.âÂ
âMm, you were sleepinâ,â he mumbles, arm tightening across your spine when you turn in his arms to face him. âLooked like you ainât been.âÂ
Oh.Â
Maybe heâs saying you look like shit. But you think you know Joel well enough now to know that isnât what he means. It means you look exhausted, it means he wants to help you not feel that way
You feel a little disgruntled. All your best laid plans are up in smoke, a curlicue of a godâs ringing laughter. You were meant to break things off with him, instead he tricked you into resting. If heâd woken you up, you would have gone through the familiar dance of soliciting him, offering your body to him, feeling guilty that you hadnât already, not really.Â
Maybe you should try not to, but you feel removed from your life and his, the encounter with his family, the stress and acrid, bubbling anxiety of the last few weeks seems distant and unimportant. Thereâs only you and him, suspended in amber on the surface of some remote and distant planet.Â
âSo weâre trespassing so that I can sleep?âÂ
He chuckles. âI know the guy who owns this place. He donât mind.âÂ
âWhat if a murderer is out here?â You stage whisper, tucking your nose against his collarbone, breathing him in deeply. If you concentrate hard enough, you swear you can smell hay beneath his usual leather and bergamot and salt.Â
You kiss his throat, feel the hitch in his voice when he answers you, âAinât likely.âÂ
He tastes like salt, too.Â
You kiss the underside of his jaw, trace your tongue over the bristles of his beard. It kind of tickles, kind of stings. His hand slips beneath your shirt, flattens it against the ridge of your spine, thick fingers wrapping around the cage of your ribs. âGuess I just have to trust you on that.âÂ
âMm, wouldnât let nothinâ happen to you.âÂ
A hot well of emotion opens in the back of your throat, rises to the tip of your tongue. You bite it back, softly spoken words, caresses that would eventually turn to burning slaps.Â
You kiss him instead, opening your mouth against his to slip your tongue past his lips. You press a hand inside his shirt, skin achingly hot, roving over the dips in his back, muscle in his shoulders, the curl of dark chest hair against your fingertips.Â
Joel tastes like popcorn, but mostly like cherries from your drink, the dark bubble of soda. He feels like a warm Saturday spent in the sun, a backyard barbecue, the tuck of a blanket around sleeping shoulders.
He groans against your mouth when you roll your hips against his, and pulls your knee over his hip. But nothing else follows, the burning arousal that usually follows simmers low and patient within you.Â
And for a long while, you just. . .kiss. Makeout like teenagers and although youâre much closer to your teenage years than Joel, you can imagine him there years ago, making some poor girl fall in love with him, kissing her in the dark during the slower parts of some long forgotten thriller.Â
You never had that experience, either in a movie theater or a drive-in but youâre doing it now, with Joel, sucking lightly on his tongue, letting him touch your tits and pinch your nipples until you moan into his mouth. You feel breathless and much younger and much less experienced than you are. You feel unsteady, like a newborn foal on shaky legs.Â
His hand slides over your ribs and back as he shifts the other to cradle your face in his palm, rubbing his thumb against your lips when he pulls away. You suck it into your mouth just to watch his eyes go dark, just so heâll rub the spit against your lips.Â
âMiss the lipstick.âÂ
âIâll wear it for you sometime.âÂ
âGood.âÂ
He kisses you again, tongue exploring your mouth like it's the first time heâs done so, hand laid carefully over your throat without pressure.
You break away with a choke when your pussy flutters, swallows around nothing. He moves his hand between your legs instead, rubs you slowly through your underwear.                      Â
âYou make me want to believe,â you murmur. The words are pulled from the depths of your lungs, gasping and truthful in a terrible, consuming way. You donât mean to say it and canât find the words to take it back, sweaty and needy and warm beneath the blanket with him.Â
You kiss the pad of his thumb and donât look at him, examining the fold of his collarbone against his t-shirt instead.Â
He frowns, blinks down at you. âBelieve what?âÂ
You shake your head and keep stroking his cheek and neck, feeling the ghost of his breath against your lips. âJust that. That you wouldnât let anything happen to me.âÂ
âYou donât believe me?âÂ
âIâm just used to no one caring.â His chest expands, you feel the intake on your palm when you press it there, veins of breath and remorse and a pulsing, hollow ache. âBut you do. Even when itâs something silly.âÂ
Maybe itâs the dark, the tumbling vastness of the universe overhead, the feeling of his heart beating wet and bloody in your hand, but you continue. âI was so naive. The first time. I thought because Iâd had sex before that I could do it no problem. It couldnât be hard to just. . .fuck someone.âÂ
Joel cups your cunt and then shifts his touch to your back. âYeah,â he says, encouraging. âGo on, darlinâ.âÂ
You swallow, tighten your fingers in his shirt. âBut then I was there. Getting stares, men wondering. I could tell they were wondering if I was what they were hoping I was. But I was so shiny and new.âÂ
Joel, to his credit, doesnât try to interrupt you, tell you itâs in the past. He listens, and you can feel the thin pulse of anger on your behalf, tying a tight bow around his chest. His palm keeps stroking your spine.Â
You werenât meant to give anything else up, not after seeing all those pictures on the walls, all the things in his own history he never trusted you with, but you canât stop yourself. You were supposed to break it off, today.Â
Instead, youâre curled in his arms, whispering your sorrows and truths into his chest, sticking your memories between his ribs, to take root or to wither and die, remains to be seen.
He sees you, that you canât deny. Thereâs nothing false in this moment.Â
âAnd I was so scared. I didnât think Iâd be scared, and the only thing I kept thinking was that I was becoming a statistic. One Iâve been trying to avoid my whole life.â You burrow closer to him, whisper the next part against his shoulder. âI was about to leave. I couldnât do it. Iâd just have to accept the life I was supposed to have and stop fighting it.âÂ
Thereâs a light squeeze at your hip, the stroke of a trusted hand down your thigh to your knee and back again, devoid of lust for anything more.Â
You close your eyes and rest your chin on his shoulder. âIt was nothing, compared to other stuff that would happen, but the first time is always the worst, I think. He was nice to me, helped me relax, made me feel special, but I think he just wanted to ruin something new and fairly innocent.âÂ
You donât tell Joel the awful details of it, that he doesnât need to know. âI had to pull over on the way home and throw up and my knees got all bloody and scratched, but in a way I was grateful. He threw me into the deep end and I had to swim or sink. I swam, my dream wasnât dead yet. I went back the next night and he fucked me again. He was. . .nicer I guess, the second time.âÂ
âJesus Christ,â he mutters, seeming truly upset. âCherryââ
âAnd then you came along,â you barrel on. âAnd Iâve forgotten every single lesson, because I didnât have to learn any lessons with you. So Iâm stupid and I believe. I believe you wouldnât let anything happen to me.âÂ
He tilts your head up in careful hands. âYou know you ainât deserve any of this right?â You donât answer and he tucks you into his chest again. âMy girl,â he murmurs. âI wish Iâd met you sooner.â
âMe too.â You grip him hard and feel yourself detaching, floating away from the memories that threaten to bubble to the surface with the retelling of the first time. You need help grounding yourself to this moment, to him, present and attentive beside you. âCan we have sex?âÂ
âYou sure, darlinâ?âÂ
You nod, already working on the button of his jeans. âYeah. I need to. . .I want to feel close to you.âÂ
Joel grunts when your fingers curl around him. Heâs warm and velvet in your hand, and you want to suck his cock but you want him to fuck you more. You stroke him slowly, thumbing at the slit until he groans, jeans pushed down around his knees.Â
He bunches your skirt around your hips and tugs your panties to the side, sheathing himself inside you, the fit snug, a pleasantly achy stretch after weeks away from each other.
âHow do you want me, baby?â Hand kneading the meat of your hip, the lascivious curve of our waist.Â
âJust like this,â you pant, moving your body in time with him, a delicate push and pull.
âOkay,â he shushes you, âAll right. Good girl. Iâm always glad when you tell me what you want.âÂ
You shiver and arch into him.
Itâs slow, a careful, mindful building, push and pull. Heat pulses between you, waves of pleasure that crest and crash in a matter of minutes or hours or years.
Maybe youâve been out in the Texas night, unfurling, unraveling, each other for decades.Â
He comes inside you as your pussy convulses around him, words pressed to your skin that hurt. Heâs got you, youâre okay now.Â
For now, maybe, you think when he presses your legs over his shoulders, spreads your pussy and folds pleasure into you one well placed movement of his tongue at a time.Â
But his brother knows.
And even if you arenât the one to pop the bubble, outside forces are at work now, and the barrier between your hidden weekends and the outside world has always been thin.Â
âAnd then you came along,â you barrel on. âAnd Iâve forgotten every single lesson, because I didnât have to learn any lessons with you. So Iâm stupid and I believe. I believe you wouldnât let anything happen to me.âÂ
every single time, without fail, i sob at this exact part. i love cherry and joel so intensely. such a vulnerable beautiful moment. your honor, i love them. forever grateful they are happily watching sunsets on the porch of their ranch, listening to each other breathe. đđ¤
prguitarman
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
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