But we didn’t bring any of it up. Decker guided me to the couch and sat me down, threading his fingers through mine as he pressed his body to my side, offering wordless solace as I stared at the television. “When did you say Lance would be back?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He’s very picky about his beer, goes to a local brewery across town to get his pretentious IPA.”
I laughed. That seemed like a very Lance thing to do. We sat there in silence for a moment. Our skin kept brushing, but I wanted more.
It wasn’t until his pinky finger caressed the outside of my knee that I caved. “I need you, Decker,” I whispered as I crawled into his lap, draping my legs over his thighs. I wrapped my arms around his neck, curling my body against his chest.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a soft voice.
“I just need a minute,” I rasped. I was sad and stupid and scared. I was reckless. I was redundantly predictable, using a vulnerable moment as an excuse to cling to Decker Harris for dear life.
“One minute, Blakely. That’s it.”
I trailed my fingers up and down his chest. He gasped. I nestled closer. He stiffened. I breathed him in and moaned against his skin.
He kissed me.
He consumed me.
He tasted my soul and asked for more.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he groaned against my lips, the tenor tone vibrating against my mouth. His sweeping tongue invaded my moans with fervor, making me grow hot with shame. I shouldn’t kiss him. I shouldn’t do this, here, now, anywhere, anytime.
I tore my lips from him, and it felt like severing a limb. Phantom pain rocked through my body. “I’m sorry,” I whispered while shaking my head. Here I was, fucking up our precarious relationship once more. “You’re trying to comfort me, and I jump your fucking bones. What is wrong with me? Dad is on the run for his fucking life, and I’m here doing this,” I hissed before gesturing between us then slamming my palm against my forehead. I went to move off his lap, but Decker held me still, his arms like steel cages locking me in.
“Nothing is wrong with you,” he cooed before gently removing my hand from my face. He gently kissed my palm, peppering affection along the lifelines grooved into my skin while keeping his eyes locked on me. “Not a single”—kiss—“damn”—kiss—“thing”—kiss—“is wrong with you, Blakely Stewart.”
“We should stop,” I murmured.
“We should,” he agreed.
“Are we going to?”
“No.”
I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His arms wrapped tighter around me, crushing my bones against his hard muscles. “What about Lance? Your job?” I prodded.
“We’ll figure it out. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t even know what this is.”
“Let’s not define it by nothings and somethings anymore,” I whispered. I didn’t want this to be a momentary lapse in Decker’s judgment. It felt like this brief allowance of intimacy was a slow-moving train wreck. Once the metal crunched and the tires screeched, he’d remember why this wasn’t a good idea. Decker was simply triggered by his hero complex. He was motivated by the idea that this time, he could step in front of the metaphorical bullet, and I was selfish enough to let him. I couldn’t handle the disappointment if he declared anything tonight then went back on it tomorrow. I’d already lost one person with good intentions today.
“How about we just call this what it is?” Decker said before setting me off his lap. The front door knob jiggled. Lance was home and standing on the other side of the front door. I listened to a set of keys rustling through the door.
“What?” I whispered, knowing that our moment was nearly over.
“Tragically inevitable,” Decker replied just as the front door opened and Lance walked inside.
22
Decker
Lance swooped in to save the day, and I let him. He called Mr. Stewart’s parole officer and demanded that she look into the situation. He called the apartment security and advised that more precautions be taken to prevent anyone from showing up unannounced. He called our parents and informed them about our random trip to visit them so we could get away while things cooled off—not that my parents particularly cared.
Then, he booked our flights, picking first-class tickets because he was feeling extra generous. He called his boyfriend—Sean—and invited him with us, but Sean turned him down. He worked weekends as a barista and couldn’t get the time off. Usually, I would be