Page 6 of From Coast to Coast
“Noted,” Stone says, tossing his bag into the back of my SUV. He settles into the back seat, sliding into the middle so that he’s positioned between Zolkov and me. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and looks out the windshield as we drive. “You guys know any cool clubs around here?”
Zolkov, immediately interested at the prospect of a wingman, turns to face him. “Yes, let me tell you.”
Focusing on driving, I tune them out. The kind of clubs they’ll be frequenting aren’t the kind I’d choose. If I’m going to troll for dates, I go to a gay bar. Although, as Z so kindly pointed out, it’s been a long time since I’ve done even that. At this point, I might as well be a celibate. I can’t even remember the last time someone touched me outside of hockey practice, and god knows those aren’t exactly satisfying encounters.
A hand on my shoulder startles me, and I glance up at the rearview mirror, locking eyes with Stone.Strange, seeing hazel eyes on somebody so blond, ismy first thought.
“Brody?” he prompts, drawing my attention to the fact that I’d effectively checked out of the conversation a while ago.
“Yeah?”
“You want to come with us?” he asks, leaning forward a little farther. His hand is gone from my shoulder, and I definitely donotwish he was still touching me. Perhaps Z is right—I’m lonely enough that the platonic touch of a stranger is giving me ideas.
“Where? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” I admit, and Zolkov snorts.
“Gray does not come to clubs with me, this is why I need you,” he tells Stone. I put the car in park and pop the trunk, waiting for Z to hop out of the passenger seat and Stone to take his place. As soon as I see Z’s face in the rearview, and he’s pulling his bag from the back, I call out to him.
“You need a ride tomorrow, too?”
“I will text,” he says, and raises a hand in farewell. I wait until he’s inside his house before reversing down his drive and pointing the car toward home. Stone, now sitting beside me in the shotgun seat, is staring out the window at the passing scenery.
“So, not into the club scene?” he asks minutes later, turning his head to watch me. I shrug, but don’t look away from the road.
“Nah. Not the kind of clubs Z is talking about, anyway. You should go, though. Have some fun. You moved here alone”—I glance at him—“so does that mean you’re single? Or is there somebody back in California?”
“Just me,” he answers quietly. “I…well, yeah, long story short, I’m single.”
I nod, letting that go even though it sounds like there is much more to that story. “Me too.”
We lapse into a comfortable silence as he goes back to staring out the window. I eventually pull into my driveway and idle as the garage door opens; he leans forward in his seat to stare wide-eyed at the front of my house. Grinning, I bring it up before he does.
“It’s crooked,” I tell him, and laugh when he gives a relieved sigh.
“Dude, I thought I was losing it for a second. You sure it’s safe for us to be in here?” he jokes, but doesn’t wait for me to answer before he hops out of the car and goes to grab his bag from the trunk. He pulls mine out as well, waiting as I slam the trunk and close the garage door. I reach a hand out for mine, but he steps away.
“No worries, I’ve got it,” he says easily.
I show him inside and watch in amusement as he immediately kicks off his shoes. His socks are mismatched, and one has a hole in the toe.
“You can drop my shit there. I’ll show you your room first so that you can put your stuff down.”
He follows me around the corner and down a short hallway. Opening the door and flicking on the light, I step aside for him to pass and then tuck my hands into my pockets as I wait in the hall. He stops in the middle of the bedroom, lays his bag gently on the floor, and surveys the room with hands on his hips.
“Bathroom is here across the hall,” I tell him, pointing to the closed door behind me when he turns at the sound of my voice. “I’m sorry the room is so small. You’re free to spread out to the rest of the house, though, and any guests I have over can use my bathroom so that you don’t have to share.”
“This is perfect,” he says emphatically. “I don’t need much beyond a bed”—he pauses to think before grinning at me—“and a kitchen.”
“Follow me.”
The rest of the tour takes all of five minutes. My house—along with the crooked walls—is small. When Zolkov first moved in, he likened it to a dollhouse, although that might have had more to do with my size than the house. Regardless, it’s just big enough for two people to live together, if they don’t mind bumping into each other in the kitchen and hallways.
“This is wild,” Stone says, running a hand along one of the more obviously crooked doorframes. He tries to pull the door closed and it sticks. Delighted, he grins at it and tries again.
“Yeah, I’m not sure how it passed inspection with the builders but”—I shrug, watching as he continues to play with the door—“I like it.”
“Me too,” he agrees.
“Both your bedroom and bathroom have working doors. And locks,” I add, but he’s already shrugging.