Page 33 of Blitz
I’d long since changed his name from Idiot Ball Chaser to Tom, I had no idea why. And how was he still talking to me after what I’d done? After losing my shit so badly and fucking around with him on the stairs.
I stared at the message, paralyzed by the emotions it triggered. Shame, want, hope—all of it churning in my gut as if I’d swallowed broken glass.
Me: Fine. You?
The response came immediately, as though he’d been waiting.
Tom: Thinking about you.
The three words hit hard.
Me: Why?
Tom: You know why. We should talk about what happened.
My fingers hovered over the screen. What was there to say? Sorry, I freaked out after we fooled around. Sorry, I’m a closeted mess who can’t handle wanting you? Sorry, my father would destroy both our lives if he found out.
Me: Nothing to talk about. It was a mistake.
Tom: Was it?
I didn’t know how to answer. I stared at my phone, the screen dimming from inactivity before I jabbed at it to keep Tom’s message visible. I wanted to see him again just because I wanted to apologize. Was it a mistake? Every logical part of me screamed “yes.” My career, my freedom from my father, everything I’d built depended on maintaining the careful façade I’d constructed. But something deeper, something I’d spent years trying to smother, whispered no.
My phone buzzed again.
Tom: I’m in Harrisburg.
Panic surged through me.What? Why?
Tom: Bye Week.
Tom: Give me your address.
Trick: No. Why?
Tom: We need to talk. Give me your address, or I’ll call BoltFuel to get it myself.
Tom: Don’t think I won’t hire a PI to find you
What? Was he threatening me? I sent my address before I could think, paranoia riding me hard.
Tom: I’m fifteen out.
I scrambled off the couh, heart hammering, knocking the TV remote onto the floor with a loud clatter. I cursed—fumblingto grab it and toss it onto the coffee table—my hands clumsy with panic. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen fucking minutes to decide whether I was going to let him in or barricade myself behind my door and pretend I wasn’t home.
TWELVE
Tom
Standingoutside the door of Trick’s place, I was suddenly swamped with doubt. Tons of it. I was drowning in uncertainty.
Generally, I wasn’t this pushy. And now that I’d sort of strong-armed Trick into speaking to me, I felt like a big, dumb aggressive dickwad, who should have been able to take the brush-off—or more like the slam of the door in the face—and gotten on with my life. I should have taken this time off during my bye week to work on myself more.
Staring at his door as if it held the secrets to the universe instead of a peephole and a mail slot, I considered turning and leaving a dozen times. Maybe sending him a text saying that I’d changed my mind. That he had the right to tell me to stay away.
“Fuck.” I sighed, letting my brow drop to his door. It was a good solid door, I was glad to note. No one would break it down without a struggle.
Eyes closed, I felt the door move from my head. With a jerk, my gaze flew from my feet to Trick standing inside the doorjamb, eyes wary, looking at me as if Satan himself had rung his doorbell. He stood there in shorts and a tank showing offhis toned biceps. I had caught a glimpse of incredibly muscled calves before I had yanked my gaze from the floor.
