Chapter Seventeen
Leighton
Moonlight flows through the windows. It casts soft highlights and shadows over the stairs. Melts into the yellow glow of the den's fluorescent bulbs.
The house is quiet except for the sizzle of a pan.
It's late. The party's over. It's just me and Ryan.
My feet pad the plush beige carpet. Then the slick equally beige tile.
Oh.
That isn't Ryan.
Dean's standing at the stove, in jeans and a t-shirt, his attention on a grilled cheese sandwich, his back to me.
He turns from his spot at the stove. His blue eyes meet mine. They're so much like Ryan's. Lighter. Brighter. Filled with playfulness instead of frustration.
He folds his arms over his chest. "What the fuck did you do to him?" His voice is teasing, but it still feels like an accusation.
I try to make my response playful. "I sucked him off."
"No offense, babe, but you need to work on your technique."
"Is that right?"
"You did something wrong to put that look on his face."
"Okay. I admit it. He likes it rough. I got carried away."
Dean shakes his head in your dreams.
"How do you know?"
"I know what a satisfied woman looks like."
"Maybe you don't." I grab a blanket from the couch, wrap it around myself like a cocoon. "Maybe they've all been faking it."
"I know faking it." He turns back to the stove. Flips his sandwich to one side. "You want one?"
Bread and cheese are the perfect antidote to my pounding headache, but I want to eat with Ryan. "No thanks."
He shrugs suit yourself.
"What time is it?"
"Time for you to stop drinking your feelings."
I fake laugh. Flip him off.
He returns the gesture.
"You know, I could have sucked him off and refused to let him make me come."
"You get off on making up this bullshit?"
"No."
"Then stop wasting your time."
"How do you know—"
"You didn't get anywhere near his cock."
I take a seat at the dining table. Pull the blanket tighter around my chest. "How are you sure of that?"
"You look desperate."
"Fuck you."
He turns to me. Unbuttons his jeans. "Sure. Let's go. Right now."
I roll my eyes.
He motions to the couch. "Fifteen minutes of anonymous sex. Nobody has to know."
"You're not even offering seriously."
He shrugs. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not.
"You aren't." I feign disgust. It's a game Dean and I play. He pretends he wants to fuck me. I pretend I find him revolting. I'm not sure how it started, but it's our regular routine.
Dean doesn't want me. He did once—he offered to "let me ride Prince Albert" a dozen times. Until, one day, he stopped offering.
Well, he stopped offering seriously.
He laughs. Buttons his jeans. "Yeah. But don't get your hopes up it means I respect you."
"I don't want your respect. How disturbing."
"What the fuck did you do to him, Leigh?"
I'm not sure if I want to smack Dean for the implication or hug him for finally looking out for his brother. "Nothing."
He turns the stove off. Slides grilled cheese onto a ceramic plate.
"Where is he?"
"On a run."
My eyes go to the time on the microwave. Nearly midnight.
"That means you fucked with his head."
"And Penny?"
"I saw his face after he talked to her. Then again after he came downstairs. You did something to him."
"Maybe he should take some responsibility for his mood."
"Maybe you should take some responsibility for lying to him."
That's a fair point. But what's Dean doing on a high horse?
"I'm not gonna tell you to be responsible or honest or some shit like that."
"Good."
He takes his plate, brings it to the table, sits next to me. "I told him to be careful with you."
"Really?"
"Yes. Guess the devil gave back some of my soul."
My anger fades to something warmer. Dean is being earnest in such a Dean way. It's sweet. Weird. But sweet.
"Thought that was my only concern."
"Are you admitting to having feelings?"
He shoots me a look. Get real. Offers me half his sandwich.
"I'm not hungry."
"You're drooling."
"Because I'm thinking about Ryan naked."
"Yeah." He leaves the half in front of me, picks up the other half, takes a monster bite. "But that's a constant thing for you."
I laugh. "True."
"I thought he was still in love with her."
"He isn't?"
"I don't know. But I know the look on his face after he left you alone in his room." He takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. "Something hurt him."
"Was she still there?"
"Yeah. They had an awkward goodbye. She left with Mr. Khaki Pants."
I laugh. "I call him Boat Shoes."
"Fuck, that's better."
"Thanks."
"What could anyone see in him?" he asks.
"A six-figure salary and a white picket fence."
"Ryan makes plenty."
"How do you know?"
"We're partners. We all make the same."
"How plenty are we talking?"
He laughs. "Enough for a white picket fence."
"And all the boat shoes you could dream of?"
"And then some." He finishes his half of the sandwich. Licks his pointer finger clean. "It wasn't her, Leigh. It was you. Something you did. Or said. Or something he thought about you." He licks his middle finger clean. "I wasn't worried you're gonna hurt him—"
"I'd never."
"I know. But you are."
My teeth sink into my lip. "That isn't fair."
The front door swings open. Rubber soles squeak against the tile foyer. Then the soft pad of socks on tile. On carpet.
Ryan steps into the dining room/kitchen/den. His brow furrows as he surveys the scene.
Dean and I are eating together.
We're trading secrets.
I know how it looks.
But it's so not that.
I place the half grilled cheese on Dean's plate. Push myself to my feet. "Good run?"
"You were gone forever," Dean says.
"Needed to clear my head." Ryan's blue eyes fix on me. They bore into me. Beg for an explanation for my proximity to his brother.
I know he struggles to trust people.
I get that.
But there's no way for me to explain without giving myself away.
"I just got up." I unwrap the blanket. Drape it over the dining chair. "I need to move."
He gives me a long slow once-over. His pupils dilate. His tongue slides over his lip.
But there's something else. Something that isn't sexual.