Page 36 of Never To Suffer

She had mentioned selling it, she might have rented it out to someone more long term. I glance over at the kid again, and to the stairs I can’t access without climbing over the couch. My brain tells me to go back into my apartment and pretend none of this happened. Order delivery. But I’m not that kind of guy. “You, uh, need a hand?”

The kid’s head snaps up, and my heart does a little tango. His eyes are a blue so light they appear gray, and full lips with their slight part—I can’t help but lick my own as he stands, andI get a better view of his arms. His muscles flex under his thin t-shirt, and I swallow hard when I spot the edges of a colorful tattoo poking from under his sleeve. I’m hoping he’s a kid hired to move furniture with his buddies, not my new neighbor. That could get dangerous.

“Seriously? Man, you’d be saving my ass so much humiliation and shit talking. My dickhead friends bailed on me.”

The softness of his voice lures me in; maybe he’s a vampire, waiting for an invitation inside. I shake that thought out of my head. Picturing him sucking on my neck will not get me groceries or get this couch out of the way. It’s going to get me into a world of trouble and?—

“I’m Xander.” He holds his hand out. “Hell of a way to meet your new neighbor, huh? Blocking the damn walkway with furniture and shit. I’m so sorry about that.”

I almost forget how humans greet one another, jerking my hand out to grab his hand and give it a squeeze. My fingers brush against the veins on the back of his hand, and his forearm tightens, giving it more definition. My mind goes blank, forgetting anyone I’ve shown any interest in over the last few years. This kid’s puppy dog eyes, with the tattoos next to them, have my full attention. His thick brown hair and the thin line of sweat that’s formed on his brow. His skinny jeans and gray henley are leaving enough to my imagination that I hope he can’t read thoughts.

“Theo. Theo Clay. No worries, these hallways are a bit, uhm, tight.” He smirks and I try to keep my knees from buckling, watching him size me up like a slab of meat. I’m doing the same back, so it’s not like I can blame him. He’s the last of a dying breed of emo kids, and he’s gorgeous.

He rubs the back of his neck as he turns to nod at the couch. “I kind of planned on surprising my girlfriend. We’ve been living in a shit hole downtown and when I found this thing, I couldn’tpass it up. I thought it would be nice for her to come home to something more than cardboard boxes and a few pillows on the ground. You know? But I’m a fucking idiot and didn’t check the size.”

Girlfriend? Shit.

No, that’s good. He’s sizing me up to know if I’m competition, not checking me out. I should know better by now. My face warms and the rush of red travel over my entire body. Reading his body language doesn’t help, either. I’ve probably got twenty years on him, and that punches me in the gut. Time acts differently as you age, as if the world around you flexes and bends into a new reality you aren’t part of. Until you catch your own reflection in a shop window and scare yourself, you don’t feel the years as they pass you by. One day, you’re eighteen, living life to its fullest and traveling through Europe with nothing but the clothes on your back. Blink and you’re ten years older with a wife and kid. Blink again, you’re listening to Hollywood’s brats bitch about their lives because their parents took away their cars and made them get a job while you research retirement funds.

“So should I, uh?—”

“Why don’t we?—”

We both go for the arm of the couch, my hand landing on top of his as we stare at each other. He’s too close, or maybe I am. Either way, neither of us moves. That’s when I get a flash of something familiar, something I used to see in the mirror years ago. A cockiness and bravado I long to have again. It’s in his eyes and reaches his smirk.

I clear my throat—and my head—before I step away, pretending to evaluate the situation of the couch.

“Are, uh, are you sure it will fit?” I don’t have time to catch my mistake as it falls out of my mouth.

“Oh, we’ll make it fit.” He steps up onto the couch and glares down at me, still smirking. “You just gotta push it inrealhard. Don’t worry, I can take it.”

I curl my lips between my teeth and bite down to keep myself from saying something stupid. Or even worse, attempting to flirt back with the kid.Girlfriend. He has a girlfriend. He’ll live next door in Alexis’s place. He has a girlfriend, and he can’t be more than twenty-five, you dirty fucking pervert.

“Relax, big guy. I’m only gonna bite if you ask.” He walks down the length of the couch, hops off, grabs the other end, and winks at me. “You okay, Theo? You know I’m only teasing, right?”

“Huh, oh, yeah. I, uhm, do you have a tape measure?”Fuck!

“Oh, we’re gonna measure it now, are we?”

“You know, to see how we’ll need to angle this?”

“Buddy, I don’t have any furniture, and I’m not about to measure someone else’s…couch. So, why would I need a tape measure?” He leans over the arm of the couch and my heart does the tango while I fail at distracting myself by thinking of cold showers and snow. “Do you have one?”

“Never mind. I guess we’re, you know, winging it.”

We’re reasonably certain the couch will fit with a little coaxing and brute force. He’s the first to reference the sitcom from the nineties with the guys moving the couch up the stairs when ours gets stuck against the wall and a door jamb. Either he watched reruns, or he might not be as young as I thought. Still too young, though.

It takes twenty minutes before we find the sweet spot of an angle and she glides right through the door. He wasn’t kidding about the furniture—or the lack thereof. I catch a glimpse of what appears to be sleeping bags on the floor in the bedroom, and the two flat pillows serve as chairs around a cardboard box table with empty Chinese food containers on top. He must noticeme staring, because he hurries over and grabs the containers, tossing them in a plastic take-away bag on the floor.

“Sorry about that,” he pants, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead to his sharp jawline. This guy could be a model, but that’s also true of half of Los Angeles. He reaches one hand over his head and pulls his shirt off, wipes the sweat from his face, and tosses the shirt toward the bedroom. His chest is a canvas. I’ve seen so many of those goofy black line art drawings that too many people regret later in life, but he’s got a talented artist somewhere. Above his heart sits a scarab beetle holding a diamond. The color and detail are so intricate, I wish I had the opportunity to stare at the artwork without coming off as a bigger creep than I already am. He has others too, but beetle drawings me in the most.

“It won’t hurt you.” He rolls his head like he’s offering me his neck, cracking it several times before he stares at me again. That cockiness back and staring at me, tempting me. “Beer?”

“I should get going. I don’t want to?—”

He holds his hand up. It’s not threatening, it’s more of a plea. “Hang on, I owe you, man. You’ve put up with my shit one-liners and a couch in your hallway.”

Before I can stop him, he rounds the corner of the kitchen. A moment later, there’s the rattle of glass and the sound of two bottles opening. As he’s walking back, I can’t stop my eyes as they travel down his chest and follow the tattoos and the deep V until it disappears into his low hanging black jeans. He hands me the bottle, his fingers brushing mine on purpose, or that’s only my mind playing tricks on me. The bottles clink together and Xander flops down onto the couch. Winking, he pats his hand on the cushion next to him. “Come on. We worked hard getting this fucking beast in here. We might as well break it in, right?”

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