Page 12 of Full Split
"This wouldn't be as weird if you let your guard down a little," he says. "Because you're trying to pretend there's nothing here. You're trying not to see it."
"What is there to see?" I try to ask nonchalantly, but I know it just comes off breathy and wanting. Like I need to hear him say it.
"That I'm not a kid anymore."
"I know you're not, but?—"
"I'm not fragile."
"I never said you were."
"You didn't have to."
"Niles—"
"Wyatt."
"This… whatever game you're playing here… It's not…" I flinch when Niles' fingers lightly touch my knee, resting his hand there without putting any pressure. The heat of the contact radiates through my jeans and makes my skin feel like it's vibrating. "You're playing with fire," I rasp.
"Then burn me," he whispers, his voice so quiet I wouldn't have been able to hear it except for the way he's leaning over the center console. He spreads his fingers out, palm resting on my leg.
"I can take it, Wyatt. The heat. The pain. All that tension and frustration you're holding that has you ready to snap. I can take it."
I look back at the road. White lines blur. The landscape and cars whizzing past blur. Everything blurs.
If I say even one more word, I won't be able to take it back. And I'm not sure I want to. Or what I'd even say.
I'm not sure of anything anymore, other than the heat of his hand on my knee and the proximity of his breath on my cheekbone. Of the pull of every buried feeling I've been trying to outrun since the night I picked him up from that bar.
I grip the wheel tighter.
This trip just got a hell of a lot longer.
CHAPTER 5
NILES
We make it to the hotel just before 10PM. After dragging our bags through the dark parking lot, we step into a quiet, clean lobby and are greeted by an all-too-friendly receptionist. It's a nice place. Newer, modern, and far enough away from the competition space to avoid being recognized without necessitating an hour drive every morning.
Inside, the lobby is hushed and softly lit. There's quiet instrumental music playing overhead, a classical version of a pop song that immediately gets stuck in my head. It smells like lemon polish and something similar to my mom's vanilla wax warmer. Wyatt checks us in at the desk while Weston messes around with a luggage cart, pretending it's a scooter until Wyatt gives him a look and tells him to, "Act his age, not his shoe size."
I watch Wyatt speak with the desk clerk. His voice is low, competent, and patient as he handles the booking and chats with the pretty woman checking us in. She's batting her long, probably fake but admittedly pretty, eyelashes at him and laughing a little too enthusiastically at whatever excuse he's making for his adult son's behavior.
I can't tear my eyes away from him. The way he drums his fingers on the counter, the way his mouth curls into a smile as he chats up the pretty girl. The little flourish he puts on the end of his signature when he signs the receipt. The three of us have traveled like this so many times. A makeshift family on the road. Only this time, it feels kind ofoff.
I'm more aware than ever that it's obvious I'm not related to them. For one, I’m lusting after the man nearly twice my age. Then there’s the visual way I stand out in our trio. Wyatt and Weston have similar looks and build. I'm not an especially small guy. I’m a little on the shorter side at five-five, but I'm built like the elite athlete I've trained almost my entire life to be. Next to these two, however, I look almost petite. They both have golden-tan skin and light brown hair. Weston's is more sun-bleached, while Wyatt's is slightly darker and starting to show some strands of silver. They both currently have five o'clock shadows, which I have to say looks really good on Wyatt. I wonder if I could convince him to keep a little scruff. I love the burn of stubble between my thighs…
I'm pulled from my errant thoughts by the desk clerk's voice as she hands Wyatt our key cards and tells him to call the front desk for anything he needs in an overtly suggestive tone. I balk at her. Weston snorts when he notices me scowling at her, then rolls his eyes. This is sadly a common occurrence, although Weston wasn't wrong about what he said yesterday—the flirting seems to go right over Wyatt's head. He truly is oblivious. Or maybe he's wholly uninterested.
It's interesting, because I definitely know he's noticedmeflirting with him. Could that mean that he's not wholly uninterested in me? Have I completely lost the plot with my wishful thinking?
I'm not that much more obvious than every beautiful woman who throws herself at Wyatt. I've not witnessed him field many advances from men, I guess. Well, other than at all the pride events we've been to together. From the age of nine or ten, my mom has driven me to the nearest cities to watch the pride parades, and of course Wyatt and Weston always came with us. All of us would stick temporary tattoos on our faces and wave rainbow flags. Wyatt always gets his fair share of attention there, too. It's a constant hardship. Weston, goofball that he is, gets into it a little more with each passing year. Last month, we attended theOut Raleighfestival wearing nothing but short shorts, body glitter, and rainbow suspenders. We bought Wyatt a sparkly feather boa to wear with his "You Will Have To Go Through Me" trans pride shirt he bought from a fundraiser. I may or may not have cut the arms off his t-shirt to allow those broad biceps to breathe.What? It was hot out.
While Wyatt definitely chuckled at his fair share of "Hey, Daddy" comments, he seemed equally nonplussed as he does when he gets hit on by women.
Honestly, I can't figure him out. But I don't think he's oblivious when it comes tomyadvances. I just can't figure out if he's horrified and trying to be nice about it or if there's the tiniest possibility that he might want me, too.
Obviously, a little more recon is in order.
