Page 32 of Dangerous Pursuit
I shake my head. "No shot. Not unless he— Wait." I straighten up even more, the rest of the excess air escaping me, deflating me like a balloon when the realization hits. "Are you asking because you're worried he saw you there in the middle of the night? Or because you're worried he saw you there in the middle of the nightwith a man?"
Xander opens his mouth, then closes it, taking a second to evaluate my question. Then, he says, "I— I don't know. Both, I guess?"
Well, at least he's not trying to lie. But that's not enough. Not for me, anyway.
I scoff. "Figures." I run my palm over my face, and then slide it to the back of my neck. "Look, Xander… I think we should end it here. I don't think this is gonna work."
"Umm… What? What the fuck, man? Where is this coming from all of a su—"
"It's not all of a sudden, okay? It's not," I say a little too sharply and take a deep breath to lower my voice. "You're still questioning things. I just don't want to be anyone's test drive. I can't."
"You're not my test—"
"Xander?" I cut him off and take a step, so that I'm standing directly in front of him. "Look me in the eye and tell me you actually believe that."
He does, taking a long moment to peer deep into my eyes, saying…nothing. Again, a part of me is grateful he doesn't try to lie. And then, "The truth? The truth is, I don't know. Not yet, anyway."
"Yeah, that's howquestioningworks."
"And what's so wrong about that?" he snaps back.
He does have a point. I take another long, deep breath. "Nothing. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm just not the one to do it with."
Xander crosses his arms on his chest and lifts his chin, his posture challenging. "Give me one good reason." I open my mouth to do just that, but he cuts me off. "No, scratch that. One can be bullshit. Give me five. And they better be good," he demands.
And even though I don't really feel cheerful right now, I burst out laughing at his combativeness, at that joyful eagerness he seems to go through life with. "Well. I don't think I have five."
"Great." He nods, agreeing with himself again. "That's settled then. DQ this weekend. Or the next, depending on their schedule."
I blink, confused by the change of cadence and the weird sentence he just produced. "Huh?"
He rolls his eyes. "I refuse to say the words Ducking Quacks. It's a ridiculous name."
I burst out laughing again and shake my head in disbelief. It's as if every single night we meet he both gives me reasons to walk away and then takes away my power to do just that.
"It's settled then," Xander agrees with himself.Again. "I'll do some googling and text you the deets. And now I'm going to walk back to my car, and you'll wait here a few minutes before you go, because walking together would spoil my dramatic exit. And you better pick up your phone."
He turns on his heel and walks away. I couldn't follow him if I tried, my mind foggy, body stunned. I shove my hands in my pockets, sigh, and look up at the sky. Light blue stripes tear across the navy fabric, and the first ray of sunshine peeks from behind the curtain, ready to emerge. It's not nighttime anymore, yet I'm still without my power.
Chapter Eleven
Xander
OPTIONS, OPTIONS.
So many options, not one of them good enough.
I go through my closet for the fifth time, cringing at every item I touch. What the fuck does one wear to atrash metalshow, anyway? Not anything I own, that's for sure. My clothes are all either sporty, or semi-formal, or…pigmented. I've already pulled out my sole pair of black jeans, but it seems, for twenty-two years I was somehow unaware black t-shirts were a thing.
Sighing, I grab one of my button-ups. It'll have to do. I bang my fingers against the wood of the closet door and pull the hanger to my neck, checking myself in the mirror.
Maybe…?
I pace to my desk, open the messy drawer and palm my way through the various odds and ends until I locate scissors. Idolike this shirt, but it's not like I don't have another ten just like this one. Fuck it. I cut off the sleeves at the shoulders. That'll do.
I pull on my jeans and what’s left of the shirt. I button it up halfway, tuck it in, and look myself up in the mirror. I shag my hair, messing it up on purpose, content I at least don't scream jock anymore.
Still, something's missing. For a few moments, I can't quite put my finger on it, testing different ways to button up the shirt. Then I realize—it's not the clothes. It's my face.
