Page 3 of Rent: Paid in Full
Four hours.
Three.
Two.
By the time the light changes, I’m exhausted. Groggy and dry-mouthed. Sleep threatens but doesn’t take hold. It’s probably not a bad thing. Falling asleep now will make it even harder to get out of bed.
Miller is still asleep when my alarm goes off. He’s twisted half on his back, half on his side, head tilted to face me. One hand is tucked under his pillow and his legs are splayed out, covers all but kicked off. Blond hair. Tanned skin. A tiny pair of white boxer briefs that cover almost enough to be considered decent but fall short. A hefty bulge lolls to one side and his underwear rides up on one leg, exposing the smooth pale skin of a milky thigh.
Chill. I’m not looking.
I’m not, okay? He’s just here. In my space. In plain sight. It’s not like I can totally avoid him.
Miller is up by the time I get out of the bathroom, fully showered and dressed. His hair stands up at his crown, giving him a slightly disheveled air, but his eyes are focused and bright. Looking at them, you would be forgiven for thinking he got a nice early night, not that he came slinking in after three in the morning.
“Cream and sugar?” he asks, pouring steaming coffee into two mugs. A blue one and a pink one, both intricately patterned. Fine China by the look of them, decorated with pale vintage roses and vines.
“Black’s fine,” I grunt, a lot more grateful for the offer than I’d like to admit.
He hands me the blue mug, and it’s not until I lift it to my lips that I notice an assortment of erections and testicles nestled into the roses and vines. Veiny and straining, swollen crowns curved this way and that. He watches me intently, eyes dancing when I flinch slightly. I quickly correct so as not to give him any more satisfaction, arranging my face into a picture of neutrality, purposefully ignoring the fact that I now notice the pink mug has an array of boobs of all sizes tastefully hidden in the floral pattern.
See?
Told you he was a dick.
2
Ryan
It’s more of atap than a knock. Soft but persistent. A rude awakening, even though I can tell from the force used that isn’t the intention. Miller pads silently to the door, opening it and pulling it almost all the way closed with him and his guest remaining outside. Miller’s voice is quiet, baritone, and smooth. The other voice is muffled. Quieter and deep. Very deep. Deep like a man. I can’t make out their words, but Miller comes back to bed a few minutes later, alone.
I fume silently, adding this to the catalog of issues I’m going to add to my formal complaint.
It’s five fucking AM on a Sunday!
Who in their right mind entertains at this hour?
One of the servers called in sick at the last minute last night, and I managed to pick up his shift. Money-wise, it’s a relief. The restaurant was super busy and working a double will take the pressure off a little next week, but my limbs were leaden by closing time, my feet were throbbing, and I was unable to hold on to a thought and follow it all the way from start to end. It was the kind of tired that physically hurts and makes you questionwhether being able to afford food is really such a big deal after all.
The last thing in the world I need is to be woken at this hour. It’s so close to morning that there’s no way I’ll fall back asleep. No way at all. I know myself, and my whole day just got fucked, thanks to Miller.
Okay, so maybe I did end up going back to sleep.
I must have because when I open my eyes again, it’s light enough that my retinas retract in protest. I’d probably cave and lie back and grab a few more minutes of sleep if it weren’t for the fact Miller is sitting up in bed less than a few feet away from me, pale gray eyes boring a hole into me.
“What?”
He shrugs and smiles as if any problem I may have with him is a figment of my imagination, but the look in his eyes doesn’t match the rest of his face. “Coffee?”
“Thanks. I want the pink mug though.”
“Sure thing,” he says agreeably. “I could go for some dick today.”
Ah, yes. Think I forgot to mention that. Miller is bisexual. Flagrantly bisexual. Of course he is. Out and proud and fancy-free. Not that I mind that he’s bi. I might be an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole. What I mind is that everyone accepts it wholeheartedly because he’s Miller MacAvoy. The good Lord’s favorite. Genetically blessed and disgustingly privileged, while the rest of u—while other bisexual men have to spend their time ducking and diving and dealing with an inordinate amount of shit ranging from bi phobia to flat-out bi-erasure on a daily basis.
It’s fucking infuriating.
The coffee maker gurgles and hisses, and the heavy aroma of a rich, nutty dark roast weaves its way to my side of the room, filling the air and tantalizing my senses. Leaving me so grateful that I actually smile when he hands me the mug.