Page 74 of Rent: Paid in Full
I feel around on my desk until I find my phone, turning the flashlight on and giving our eyes a moment to adjust before shining it on the back leg of my desk.
“Look,” I say.
I angle my flashlight so it hits the wood just right. Varnish glimmers around childish block letters.
W + A.
The letters have been carved deeply into the wood and are surrounded by a slightly lopsided heart, complete with an arrow shot through it. It’s well hidden. I wouldn’t have found it at all if I hadn’t moved furniture around a few weeks after I got here. I don’t know how long the letters have been here or who carved them. That’s what I love about it. There’s a history, a story, a lifetime lived in this room that we know nothing about.
Ryan extends a forefinger and traces the letters lightly. It’s something I’ve done many times before, so I know exactly what it feels like. Grooves and indentations that can be decoded by touch. A message. A love letter written in braille.
“I wonder if he got the girl? W, I mean. I wonder if he got her?” I ask quietly. “Or if she got her? Or if they got them? Or—”
“—ifhegothim,” Ryan finishes for me.
“What do you think?”
“I dunno.” His voice is sleepy, fading, but not totally closed off yet.
“I think he did.” He hums his agreement or amusement at my ridiculousness. I can’t tell which, and I don’t mind either way. “Ry,” I stroke his back softly, “I know you like planning shit, and your anxiety doesn’t like surprises, so I’m going to tell you something. You don’t have to say anything. I’m only telling you so you have some time to get used to the idea.”
“Mm?”
“You’re not leaving me tomorrow.”
“I’m not?” I’ve almost lost him to sleep. It’s close, but he’s still with me. A foggy, relaxed version of him who’s a lot less inclined to argue. The perfect version of Ryan Haraway, in other words.
“No. You’re not.” I kiss the back of his neck and nestle my head into my pillow. “You’re not because I’m not letting you go. Gonna make you stay by any means necessary.”
Ryan looks unreal this morning. He always looks good, but this morning especially, he looks so hot I can hardly stand it. He’s a picture of rage with ragged sleep lines etched into his face. A big, beautiful nose. Electric eyes that are drenched in confused fury at finding himself in my bed.
“You’re so pretty,” I say, handing him his coffee quickly to neutralize the effect I know my words will have on him.
His eyes blacken and roll to the ceiling.
He’s blindingly attractive, absolutely blinding, but he’s more attractive from some angles than others. Maybe that’s why he can’t see it in the mirror.
He puts his glasses on, shoving them roughly up his nose, and takes a careful sip of coffee, doing his damnedest not to look too grateful.
Oh God. He’s so sweet.
“Ry.” I take hold of the sheets and start easing them down his chest and away from his lap, exercising the caution history has taught me I need. I take his thickening dick in my hand, aware that the threat of an errant mug of coffee hurtling my way is low but not zero. “D’you remember what I said last night?” He blinks slowly as my hand slides up his cock all the way to the head. I circle my fist around it, tightening it until his eyes bulge slightly and I’m positive I have his full attention. “D’you remember what I said about you leaving today?”
“You said I’m not, but I totally am,” he mutters in a monotonous tone.
“No, you’re not.” My hand slides down his now fully erect cock, sinew and muscle pulse, and he leans back against the wall as if to escape the torment.
“I am!”
“Nope.”
“Iam. I’m going home. I’m leaving today. I’m stopping over in Cleveland, and I’m driving the rest of the way tomorrow.”
“Nah-uh, you’re not. There’s no fucking way you’re driving that piece-of-shit truck all the way to Chicago. I won’t allow it.”
Oof, that pisses him off big time.
He shifts his hips, straightening up to get ready for a fight, but he’s going nowhere. I have him by the root, after all.