The Drazen World: LUST (Kindle Worlds Novella) (6 page)

“We can’t know how it would work until we tried it, right Paul? So, why not? We’re already doing this thing, on and off, hot and cold, yes and no. We both know neither of us can resist it. So why not just… stop resisting? See where it goes.”

He closes his eyes. Holds his breath. I realize I’m holding mine too. I’ve never wanted anything this badly before, but I know better than to push. He needs to want to try this too. “Only if you’re sure,” he finally whispers, and it feels like fireworks going off in my veins.

But he’s backing away, toward the door. “Don’t decide now,” he adds, those eyes catching mine, stern again. “Think it over. Without me around, without the chemistry.” He lifts an eyebrow, half-smirking. Knowing exactly what I do – that neither of us can think straight with the other one around. “When you’ve decided, you know where to find me. Or not. Up to you.”

The door swings shut behind him before I can say that I already know my answer. But I’m smiling. Because for the first time in what feels like forever, I’ve started to hope again.

Chapter Seven

I'm lying in my bed, fist wrapped around my dick, dripping with lube. All I can think about is Paul. For the last three days and nights. Every time my eyes drift shut, and often when they're still open, I see him standing in front of me, that gorgeous cock stiff and proud before me. I taste him in my mouth, my throat, feel him in my grasp.

God, I can't get enough of him. And yet, I haven’t stopped by to see him yet. Haven’t given him my answer. Because, even though it remains the same as always, I want him to know that I’m taking his advice seriously. I’m thinking this through. Deciding if I can live the double life of fucking a Catholic priest who’s still deep in the closet.

My phone buzzes, and I startle out of my daze, loosing my hold on my dick to snatch it up. I'm so eager, still wrapped up in thoughts of Paul, that I don't even think about it. The second I glimpse a local area code on my phone, unfamiliar number, I answer, heart threading through my ribcage, hope trickling into my veins.
Paul?
I think. Hope. Pray.

But on the other end of the phone, the second I answer, is a different, yet also familiar voice. "Darren."

"Henry? Where are you?" I sit up in bed. Henry hasn't been at band practice for days. We had two scheduled practices in the garage where we normally rehearse, but only Monica and I showed each time. With Gabby gone, we can't afford to lose another member. Not now.

Monica kept asking if I knew what was going on with Henry, if we should be concerned. I reassured her it was nothing, but now, I realize, I should have told her. Or at least hinted. I'd just kept hoping that Henry's absence wasn't something to do with me.

"In a motel," he mutters. Well, that explains the unfamiliar yet local number.

"Why?"

"I needed to get away for a while." He hiccups, and only then do I realize with a slight buzz of surprise that he's drunk. I've only seen Henry drunk maybe four times in my entire life. Even at Gabby's funeral, he refused to touch a drop. Probably because when he does let himself drink, he tends to go totally off the rails.

"Where are you? I'll come get you," I offer, already standing up and yanking on the nearest pair of jeans.

"Don't." His tone comes so sharp and angry that I freeze halfway to reaching for a shirt.

"Henry, you shouldn't be alone like this. Not after . . ." I swallow those words. I can't think about Gabby.
It's okay,
I try to convince myself. He's not like her. Not suicidal. He's not going to go off the rails.

"I'm fucking fine," he hisses. "You're the one who should be careful. You're . . . I mean, fuck, Darren, what are you doing?"

I sit back down on my bed, slowly. The late afternoon sun beats down through the curtains of my bedroom, illuminating the mattress, the sheets, my legs. "What do you mean?"

"Is this about Gabby?"

"Is what about Gabby?" I answer forcefully.
Fucking say it, Henry. Admit why you're flipping out
.

"You . . . experimenting."

"Are you really going to reduce it to that?" I snap. "You, of all people?"

"You're in pain right now, Darren. You aren't thinking straight. And, I mean . . . " He lowers his voice, yet I can still hear the anger searing through every word. More clearly now than ever before, in fact. "You know how I felt . . . How I feel about you. But you're straight. That's what you always told me. Even when we . . . I mean, fuck, we
kissed,
Darren. And you never told me a thing. Do you even remember that?"

I wince, head bent over my lap. Of course I remember. It's just not something I'm proud of. A year and a half ago, after band practice, the girls had gone home for an early night. Henry and I stayed out, telling stories, trading jokes, sharing shots. The same thing we'd done after a million other band practices before. But something was different that night. I don't know what. Maybe the atmosphere, the bar we were in, or the music playing, some cloying, terribly cheesy love song that we both laughed at, and sang along to, half-joking, half in pain at the sudden awareness of how alone we were in the world.

Henry leaned across the bar, over his own stool, to catch my chin in his hand. He gave me time to pull away. He gave me a million years to react, but I didn't do a thing. Mainly because I was stunned into stillness. But also because I was curious. I'd only ever kissed women. Suddenly, selfishly, even though I knew I didn't feel about him the way he did about me, I wanted to know what those lips tasted like.

So we kissed. His lips sank into mine, and for a split second, I kissed him back.

Then I jerked away, stammering apologies, explaining how I liked women, and he'd fled from the whole bar, he was so mortified. It took him two more practices to show up again that time, too, and I knew it was because he felt a lot more for me than just one kiss. He tried, other times, to explain. Mostly when drunk or stoned. And I let him, and I brushed him off with more
I'm straight
responses. But even then, I'd begun to realize I wasn't. Even then, I knew I was lying to him.

So I have no excuse now.

"I do remember," I tell him, my voice hardly a whisper.

"Then why did you lie to me?"

"It wasn't lying," I protest, and he scoffs in my ear.

"Either you're gay and you're a liar, or you're straight and that asshole is taking advantage of you," he snaps.

My spine stiffens. "He is not taking advantage of me."

"Oh really? Darren, fucking Christ, you're hooking up with the
priest from your sister's funeral.
"

"It's not like that," I protest, but he's gotten started now, and nobody stops Henry once he's launched on a rant.

"It's exactly like that. You're grieving. You're vulnerable. If anyone would understand that, it'd be someone who deals with grieving people on a regular basis. I bet that's his fucking fetish or whatever. Getting off on turning straight boys gay when they're drunk or depressed or suicidal or something."

"
Do not even joke about that,
" I hiss, because how fucking dare he. How dare he use the S word around me right now, how dare he even
mention
that in the same context as Gabby's funeral.

"Who's joking? I'm fucking serious, Darren. He's using you. If you won't do something about it, I will."

"You don't understand anything, Henry." I clench my fists so hard my knuckles crack. "Look, I'm sorry that you're fucking in love with me and I don't return the feeling or whatever. But that does not give you the right to judge what I do with the rest of my life. Paul and I—"

"Paul and you? What, you're a fucking
thing
now? He's a goddamn priest, Darren. A Catholic priest. He hates himself, and he's dragging you into that shithole with him. I won't allow it."

"Nobody asked for your permission."

"Yeah, well, we'll see. You aren't thinking straight, so someone has to."

I open my mouth to reply, I'm not sure how. Probably with another insult. At this point I don't care how drunk or sad he is, nothing gives him the right to say this kind of shit to me. But before I can respond, the dial tone buzzes in my ear.

He hung up on me. Fuck.

I stare at the receiver for a second, my mind racing.
If you won't do something about it, I will.
An uneasy sensation creeps into my gut. I've only heard Henry make threats a couple of times in my life, but every time, he's followed through and then some. It makes me uneasy to think about what he's planning, about his twisted idea of fair revenge for me breaking his heart or whatever he thinks I've done to him.

There's nothing for it
, I decide, after a minute of staring at my bare bedroom wall in shock.
I'm going to have to warn Paul
.

***

The sacristy is dim at this hour. I found my way back here after a nun up in the main nave of the church pointed me along, saying I could find the father in here. But now that I'm inching the door open, my nerves flicker to life. Should I be here? Am I even allowed in here?

Like this is the worst sin you've ever committed,
my brain points out.

"Paul?" I whisper into the dim.

There's a rustle, and then he appears, still dressed in his everyday clothes, black pants, black shirt, white collar. He's preparing for mass, but he hasn't started dressing yet.

"Close the door," he says. His eyes and his mouth tell different stories. Those eyes light up, desire white-hot in them. But his mouth clamps shut, a tight little line of nerves.

"I'm not here to interrupt," I say as I ease the door shut behind me, sealing it with a soft click and a turn of the lock. "I just want to warn you."

"Warn me about what, the danger my immortal soul is in?" he responds with a wry smirk, half-turning away from me to begin unfolding his sacramental garments from a small wardrobe in the corner. “I think I should be the one warning you, there.”

“You did warn me, remember?” I take a step closer. “You gave me all the time in the world to run if I want to.”

“And do you?” Our eyes lock, and I swear I can hear his breath even from here, in sync with mine, faster than usual.

“No. I want you.”

He moves closer. Inches away in the dark. “Are you sure?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything,” I manage to whisper. His hand finds my cheek, cups it. Traces the bones under my skin, and turns every nerve ending in my body on fire.

“What’s my warning, then?” He raises an eyebrow, and I almost laugh. I forgot why I even came here.

“That… It’s not about us. Just a friend of mine. The one who walked in on us in the band room.”

Something flares in his eyes for a second. Jealousy? “If you want to pursue someone else instead, Darren, I understand. I know we have no viable future. I won’t blame you.”

“Stop.” I shake my head, reaching up to catch his hand and wrap my fingers around his. “It’s not that. I don’t want him.” I swallow hard, half-laugh. “That’s the problem, actually. He came onto me in the past. He was . . . the first guy I ever kissed, actually. Mainly just out of curiosity. I always told him I was straight, though, because I knew I wasn't into him. But then he saw us together and . . ." I wince, my eyes drifting again, suddenly unable to meet his. "He thinks you're using me. Taking advantage of my grief about Gabby. He swears he's going to do something about it. And this guy, when he gets revenge or whatever he's twisted this situation into on the brain, he doesn't give up. He's going to try to undermine you. Hurt you, somehow, because he thinks you're hurting me."

Paul sighs, deep in the back of his throat. The kind of sound you make when you're surrendering. "I
am
hurting you," he almost whispers.

"But you don't deserve to be punished."

He spreads his arms wide with another of his characteristic shrugs. "Maybe I do. Who am I to say? Perhaps I deserve whatever this friend of yours would like to throw at me."

"Stop playing the martyr." I roll my eyes. "You don't deserve punishment, just because you fucked me."

"That's not what I said."

I shake my head. "It is. This life you’ve got makes you think that basic human desire is evil. That you’re a bad person for wanting love. But that’s bullshit, and I think part of you knows it. You deserve to be happy every bit as much as any of us.”

"This isn't who I am." He tugs at his collar, then slaps the sacred garments in his wardrobe. Gestures angrily at the sacristy around us, even as he takes another step closer to me. There's only a small, secretarial wooden table between us, a tiny low piece of furniture clearly meant for resting any little side belongings on while he prepares himself to perform his holy duty.

"Yes it is. You said as much, just last week," I point out.

"I lied." He shrugs again. His expression is one I've not seen before. Sheer desperation. "To you and to myself. This isn't me. Maybe it never was. The person I really am, that's who I am with you, Darren. Or at least, who I'd like to become with you."

My throat tightens. This is what I wanted, what I came here to get, and yet now that he’s saying it, it feels too much like a dream. Too much like the scene I’ve imagined for days to really be happening. "You said this would never work,” I murmur.

"Another lie. At least . . ." Another step toward me. Another desperate glance. "I hope it was."

"But Henry. He's threatening us, if we keep going, he'll do something, expose us or, I don't know, try to hurt you."

"I don't give a shit, Darren." Paul's right in front of me now, rounding the little table to stand beside me, his hands rising, catching the lapels of my blazer. "I want you."

I lean toward him, drawn in all over again by that sexy fucking mouth of his, that firm jawline, those steady, piercing green eyes. "Then take me," I say, my voice barely a breath, it's so out of my control.

His lips claim mine, rough and hard, and I kiss him back every ounce as forcefully. My hands fist in his hair, but he pulls out of the kiss to stare at me again, dead in the eye, his expression melted into the possessive, hungry look I'm coming to know well. The look that means he's about to wreck my world a hundred ways all over again. And I can't fucking wait.