Page 44 of The Revenge Agenda

Or maybe it’s because everything with Rush is already so complicated that no matter what we did, it was always going to get messy. It’s still strange to me how easily he admitted he found me hot and would sleep with me. The honesty was clear, and while I’d been more cagey in my interest, I can’t deny it’s there. The second Xander had suggested we fuck, my mind immediately ran away with the idea, and now that we’ve kissed, it’s only making me crave more.

It’s probably a good thing Rush wasn’t Ian’s idea of a gift to share because now that I’ve tasted him, I’m craving him. Would once have been enough? I’m almost understanding why Ian did what he did; the only difference between us is that I never would have cheated, no matter how desperately I wanted someone.

My horny high dissolves.

As attracted to him as I am, even if Ian and I had slept with him together, that would have been it for me. When I’m in a relationship, I’m committed. I’d never cross those lines, emotionally, mentally, or physically.

Ian is a filthy fucking reminder that not everyone feels that way.

Does Rush?

It’s not a gamble I can take. Not after what happened.

I need to put that attraction aside, delete the video, and resist the urge to keep emailing him.

I don’t delete the video, but I do make it the rest of the day without reaching out.

Sunday isn’t so easy. I’m antsy, and work isn’t holding my attention. It takes next to no time to duck down to the store down the street so I can stock the small fridge and cupboard in my room, and so, keeping my fingers crossed to the universe, I pull up house listings.

Some cute apartments, a few houses I already know are out of my price range, and … wait. I pause on a two-bedroom home that looks fucking perfect.

It’s pale yellow, has a tidy front porch, hardwood floors, and a bay window at the back that overlooks the green yard. The kitchen and bathroom have seen better days, which is probably why the price is what it is.

From the small map, it looks easy driving distance to the office as well.

My heart is thundering in my rib cage as I fill out the interest form and ask when I can see the house. I need it. I can’t—for my bank balance and my own goddamn mental state—miss out on another place. Just looking at the photos already feels like home.

It’s only a few minutes later that I get a reply:

I’m sorry Mr. Barrett, this home has already been rented.

What the fuck?

I almost throw my phone. Today. It was listed to-goddamn-day. How many real estate agents are working on the weekend, let alone renting a fucking house with zero goddamn notice. Did those people even look at the property? Or did they just sign a check?

The long, loud growl that erupts from me is feral.

I can’t keep doing this. I can’t.

I’ve made the decision to stay at work, to keep chipping away at building a life in Seattle, and I’m buffered from every angle. How many more signs am I supposed to be hit over the head with before I give up? Jesus. Even the kiss with Rush is going to make things weird. Am I better off heading home? At least my parents won’t be charging me a hundred and fifty bucks a night rent.

Even thinking that makes my stomach curl.

Rent.

Parents.

Moving home.

I’m trying so fucking hard to stand on my own two feet. That’s what’s most frustrating about all this. Am I really that unlucky? Or is there something so fundamentally wrong with me that I can’t see where I keep screwing up?

I’m burning to talk to someone. To not feel so isolated.

My parents will only baby me, and while I’d love their support right now, what I need is tough love. Someone to remind me to keep going.

So I open Audrey’s number and hit Call.

“Brother,” she says as soon as she answers.

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