Starting From Here (Starting From #3) - Lane Hayes Page 0,40
the second. He was methodical and deliberate. In other words, my exact opposite.
“Here.” He tossed a towel at me, then reached for his discarded jeans. “Bathroom’s that way if you want to…you know.”
“Freshen up?”
I wiped the mess of sweat and cum from my chest, dropping the towel on the floor as I collected my thoughts.
“Yeah.” Tegan cleared his throat and scratched his neck, looking everywhere but at me.
I moved down the hall to use his bathroom. His place was small and tired-looking, but at least it was clean. The navy towels were folded neatly, and the mirrors weren’t streaked with toothpaste gunk. I was mildly curious about the contents of his medicine cabinet…’cause I’m nosy like that, but I didn’t linger. My window of opportunity was closing. I washed my hands quickly and hurried to the entry to gather my clothes.
I snapped the elastic band on my boxer briefs and bent to grab my jeans just as Tegan appeared, pulling a black T-shirt over his head.
“Do you need a ride?”
“Eventually. I want to talk to you first.” I gestured at the few square feet of carpet we’d used as a fuck mat. “We’re not going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
He let out a slow rush of air. “You’re exhausting.”
“And you secretly don’t mind.” I shrugged my shirt on and made a production of frowning at the missing buttons.
“Don’t blame me. That was you making me crazy. Like you always do. You’re a fucking hurricane.” Tegan shook his head ruefully and raked his fingers through his hair. “God, I…I can’t do this and stay sane.”
I looked up and met his gaze. I hated that he didn’t trust me. I couldn’t claim ignorance or accuse him of overreacting. I’d hurt him. More than once. Sure, he’d hurt me too, but my pride got in the way of making things right every time. I was so tired of building walls, crashing them down, and doing it all over again. We were part of each other’s lives, and I had a strong feeling we always would be. If that were the case, we couldn’t go on like this.
“You don’t have to do anything alone, T. Why don’t you offer me a glass of water and tell me to take a seat?”
He furrowed his brow suspiciously. “Why?”
“ ’Cause we’re gonna talk…and it might take a while.”
Tegan pursed his lips. “How long?”
“Don’t be a dick,” I scolded, moving toward the saggy old sofa. “Am I gonna catch anything if I sit on this thing?”
He sighed. “No offense, but it’s late and I don’t want to talk or—”
“Petra is the blogger Xena blabbed to about you and Justin,” I blurted.
“What the fuck?” He glowered. “Why didn’t you lead with that, asshole?”
I threw my hands in the air and narrowed my eyes. “ ’Cause I wanted to get in a big fight and have angry sex on your floor. Why else?”
“Why were you talking to her? Why’d you tell her about us? What the fuck is going on here?”
“Oh, wow. You’re coming unglued. Offer me water, so we can sit and chat like rational adults.”
Tegan stared at me, then shrugged. “Fine. Do you want a beer instead?”
“Water’s good. Thank you.”
I sat on the corner of the cushion and looked up at the framed Pink Floyd poster. I remembered talking about music the night of our first kiss. We’d been like two strangers trying to find common ground. But the second T showed me his drums, the years faded away. We’d talked about our favorite bands, songs, and concerts we’d been to. Tegan was a metal fan, but he loved classic rock too. Especially Pink Floyd.
“They’re old. Why do you like them?” I’d asked.
“They’re awesome. A little psychedelic and punk without being total anarchists. I like bands who rock out but stand for something too. Do you know what I mean?” Tegan had rolled his eyes at my blank stare before explaining. “When the music and the lyrics send a message. It doesn’t have to be political or hit you over the head with current events and PC realness. Sometimes musicians try too hard to connect and end up missing the mark. I want to be part of a band that gets it right. Pink Floyd was like that in their time. They weren’t the only ones, but they were one of the best.”
“And someday, you’re gonna be one of the best drummers, eh?”
“Yep. What about you?”
I’d scratched my head thoughtfully and picked up the acoustic guitar propped on