“Oh my god, woman. You’re not supposed to burst out laughing after something like that,” he tells me, mastering his face into a fake stern expression. “That’s it. You are in so much trouble now.”
We climb up onto the bed and Sloane passes out without a word. I don’t, though. I lie there staring at the ceiling, fighting the desire to close my own eyes. I’m fucking tired, but I can’t let myself go to sleep. I just can’t. I’ve been dreaming about my mother recently, the beach and the boardwalk—but there’s nothing to say I won’t dream the other dream tonight. Nothing to say I won’t freak out and try and strangle my girl to death if I wake up and she’s lying beside me. I can’t risk that. I lie still a little longer, enjoying the slow draw of her breathing in the darkness, her hand resting lightly on top of my stomach, her head resting on my shoulder, dark hair spilling out behind her onto the plumped up pillows, and I know I have to go.
The problem is I really want to fucking stay.
She barely stirs as I slide out from underneath her. In the kitchen, I make myself a coffee with a healthy shot of Jack instead of milk. I feel like shit. I’ve never wanted to sleep in the same bed as a woman before. It’s a brutal shock to the system, this urge to hold her against me all night, to protect her. Worse, because I’m the one she’d need protecting from. Is this what our life will be like? Having sex and then me ducking out on her every single night, having to creep out of a warm bed so I can go and lock myself away? That doesn’t sit well with me. Not fucking well at all.
I finish the coffee, and then I make myself another one, this time without the Jack. As soon as the caffeine kicks in, I throw some clothes on and head over to Michael’s room. He answers the door on the third knock. His instant appearance surprises me.
“Whoa. Going somewhere?” He looks like he is. With his black suit and crisp white shirt, it’s either that or he’s prepped and ready for the Duchess’s funeral already. Michael treats me to one of his rare, broad smiles.
“Oh, just planning on seeing a friend.”
He’s going to go screw someone. In all the time I’ve known him, Michael has never offered up any information about women—he’s been so tight lipped, I’ve often wondered if he bats for the other team—but I know he goes off to have a little fun of his own every once in a while. I don’t think I’d trust him if he didn’t.
“Right. Okay, well…” I’m not the kind of man to come between another and his fuck buddy. I begin to back away from the door.
“You okay? You need something?” Michael asks. “Everything’s set for the morning.”
“Yeah, no. Everything’s fine. I just...” I am the most awkward person on the face of the planet. I try to turn and make it back behind door A, but a hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.
“You worried? About sharing the apartment alone? With Sloane?” Michael asks.
A few months ago, I would have laughed at him for making the suggestion. A few months ago, I probably would have punched his arm hard enough to leave a bruise and told him to stop being so fucking ridiculous. But now…I turn and face my friend, fighting for the right words. “I’m not…I don’t…” I take a deep breath. “It’s not about the apartment. I’m worried about sharing a bed with her.”
Michael doesn’t laugh, which is the only thing that saves him from a fist to the face. He pouts, nodding at me. “So, you’re worried about the sleep thing? Because you want to share a bed with her?”
God, why is this so hard to admit to another person? “Yes.”
Michael carries on nodding, his eyes serious as he thinks this over. “Well,” he tells me, “it hardly seems fair that you should have to worry about that your whole life. Does it?” Maybe Michael has foreseen the same future for Sloane and myself that I just did, lying in the dark in that room, hating myself. “I guess the question you ought to ask yourself, boss, is…do you think she’s worth facing that particular problem? Is she forever? Because you can only keep one of those elements in your life forever—the girl, or the monster that plagues your dreams. The choice is yours.”
The candor of his response makes me a little edgy—we don’t talk about this sort of stuff—but I’m at a crossroads here. And what he’s saying actually makes sense. It’s all well and good being a man about things and showing the world a hard exterior, but sometimes being a man means admitting you need a little help. And…and I think I’ve reached that point. Even thinking that makes me uneasy, but the girl…Sloane is worth it. She has to be. “Michael, I need a ride.”