Page 93 of Wilde's End
“You’re smiling.”
It disappears completely. “And?”
“And … I …” You’re beautiful. I’m in shock. It made something in my chest goping. “Didn’t know you could do that.”
“I have a mouth, don’t I?”
Before the amusement in his eyes can totally fade, I change the subject. “My dick is well aware of that fact.”
Life flares into his dark pupils. “That one time was nothing. Barely a blow job.”
“Can’t wait until you give me a real one, then.”
He shifts around, arm resting across the backs of both chairs. “You’d never recover.”
“That might be the best challenge you’ve given me yet.”
“We’ll see.” He finishes the last of his beer. “Drink that, and I’ll take you home.”
Instead of draining my glass, I take a small sip. His eyes narrow, and it brings my combatant side out. “I’m enjoying myself right here.”
“Because we’re talking about blow jobs?”
“Because I’m talking to you.”
Wilde looks like the one who goes offline for a moment. “That’s … no one …”
“How long have you lived here?” He can bumble his way through denying he’s fun to talk to all he likes; I’m not going to let him get away with it. Sure, he’s a minefield of grunts and nonanswers, but the way I feel with his attention on me is too addictive to walk away from.
“Twenty years.”
“Oh, wow. That’s a long time.”
He doesn’t immediately answer, but I can sense one coming. “It’s gone faster than you’d think. Things like birthdays and dates don’t mean much to me. It all just … passes.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
That means he was only a teenager when he got here. Did he come alone? What happened when he was seventeen that had him land here? I know better than to ask, especially with that contemplative look playing across his face.
“What are you thinking about?”
His large hand scuffs at his beard. “When Ziggy shaved it for me, it was the first time I’ve looked in a mirror in … a long time. Looked older than I was expecting.”
“Old isn’t a bad thing.”
He laughs softly. “I didn’t say old. I said older. Jesus.”
I reach up and run my knuckles over the short facial hair. My nerves are in my throat as I wait for him to bat my hand away, but he only watches me, curious. “Older looks good from where I’m sitting.”
My voice is huskier than I expect it to be, and instead of disagreeing—or hell, even saying it back—Wilde lifts my glass and holds it out to me. “Finish.”
I guess I’ve pushed my luck enough with him today, so as much as I want to keep teasing him with small sips, I do what I’m told for once. The cold liquid disappears, and then I set the glass down again.
Wilde takes them both, and I follow him to the bar, where he washes them up, dries them, and sits them on a rack. Then he stuffs five dollars into a jar full of cash.
I’m about to ask if it’s ever been stolen, but I think I already know the answer to that.
