Page 69 of Rent: Paid in Full
“Nah-uh,” I squeak, shaking my head rapidly from side to side.
Yes, pleeeease, groans my dick.
I snatch my drink off the bar as soon as it arrives and chug it. As I do, I offer up a silent prayer that the icy elixir will sober me up, despite knowing full well that sobering people up isn’t a common side effect of rapidly consuming alcohol.
Miller turns to the bar, so we’re standing side by side. I breathe a sigh of relief when I think the threat has passed, but it’s a false alarm. The threat is still live. It’s large and at play. Miller’s body is less than an inch from mine. We’re not touching, but that’s only making it worse. The space between us has caught on fire. My skin burns and vibrates from the strain of not touching him. I set my empty can down and order another drink for myself.
“Thirsty?” asks Miller, arranging his face into a pretty picture of faux innocence.
By the time my next drink has arrived and we’ve found our way back to our group, our seats have been taken. The second the guy who took Miller’s seat sees him approach, he gets up and moves out of the way.
Miller crowds the guy in my seat, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder that looks friendly but isn’t.
“Move,” he says.
The guy is big and obviously drunk. He’s offended by Miller and clearly not firing on all cylinders. Something old and exceedingly adept at reading this type of situation sounds the alarm. The fist reaches into my chest and starts to squeeze.
“How come?” the drunk guy slurs.
“‘Cause that’s Ryan’s seat,” Miller says simply.
“Yeah, bud…” says Trip, getting to his feet.
“…that’s Ryan’s seat,” echoes Dean, standing too.
Good things and bad things collide. Old things and new things. Fear, hope, dread, and excitement. They crash into each other and explode in my chest. Trip drops a heavy hand on my back. A solid slap that lands like a stamp of approval.
I know it’s dumb. Believe me, no one on Earth thinks it’s dumber than I do. I judge everyone involved in this situation. Myself most of all.
Still. Feels pretty damn good.
To my endless surprise, the big, drunk guy clambers to his feet, apologizes to me, and staggers off. I take his seat and sit there in shock. More than shock, really. I sit in whatever it is that makes people beam like raving idiots.
Alcohol. That’s what it is, obviously. Alcohol makes people stupid.
I should cut it out of my diet completely.
Starting next semester, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Right now, I’m going to sip my beer at my leisure and try to ignore the fact that Miller’s knee is grazing mine. And more thanthat, I’m going to ignore the fact that it feels like he’s burning a hole through my jeans where we’re touching.
What I can’t ignore is the fact I know he’s waiting. He’s watching me and waiting. I can feel it. A hot, sticky trickle runs down one side of my body, making me sizzle until, at last, I give him the slightest of side eyes.
He pounces.
“You’re hard,” he mouths, punctuating his statement with a pointed glance at my lap.
“I’m tired.”
“Is that what they’re calling it, huh?” He lets the words roll slowly off his tongue, tilting his head back to show me the slow ride his Adam’s apple takes up and down the column of his neck.
It’s my turn to make him wait. I make him wait until Emily arrives with a girl with short dark hair and watercolor birds and flowers tattooed all over her arms. It’s Cat, the acquaintance-slash-friend who has dire effects on Emily’s blood pressure.
Em’s face is rosy and she’s a spluttering, messier version of her usual self. She and Cat have managed to find themselves trapped in an awkward situation where neither of them has any clue how the other feels.
“How are things going?” I ask her out of the corner of my mouth.
“Don’t know.”