Page 14 of Wicked

I’ll remember him until my dying breath.

5

Candlewick

Wow. Just kissing Manny has exceeded every silly fantasy I had at the naïve age of fifteen before I kissed the captain of the football team and realized that men weren’t nearly as dreamy in real life. I want to take Manny to the nearest hotel and make love to him all night. Unfortunately, we can’t.

We need an alibi, and I think Manny needs to take things slow. Anne was right. I feel his resistance softening with every minute we spend together. He really will come around. When that happens, I want our relationship to be a safe place for him, not an anger-fueled emotional roller coaster.

At the bottom of the stairs, we find a tourist trap full of trinkets just as tacky as the clothing in the closet upstairs. Manny leads me out the front door and onto the wide sidewalks of New York City.

We stop by the Den of Dreams first. Manny has a quick conversation with the bouncers at the door who are polite enough not to mention Manny’s ridiculous clothing. One of them disappears inside for a few minutes before returning with a wallet. The entire time, Manny rubs his thumb gently along the back of my hand. His touch is absolutely maddening. I’ve had sex with plenty of men. I’ve even had sex with multiple guys at the same time. But they never made my body come alive like Manny.

By the time we start walking again, my cock is half-hard, and the hotel idea is sounding better and better.

“Where do you want to go?” Manny asks as if he’s reading my thoughts. “You said you wanted to go to your friend’s house?”

Want isn’t the right word. Revolver will be furious if I show up in the lobby of his apartment at two in the morning. Especially after our last conversation. But his apartment has top-of-the-line security, including cameras that will document our every move. There’s no better alibi than that.

Besides, I miss him.

A part of me wonders if it’s a good idea to return to Revolver’s apartment so soon. Dorian isn’t dead yet, and I distanced myself from Revolver to protect him from Dorian’s wrath. But H went to Dorian’s house to stop the spell, which means Dorian will be too busy with that to worry about me tonight. Hell, even if he paid someone to keep tabs on me after I got out of jail, no one except another dragon could have followed Anne.

Going to Revolver’s is the best option we have right now.

“Yeah. We should get a taxi. Do you have money?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“Unless you want to wear that getup on the subway,” I say, gesturing to his clothing.

He laughs. “No, we can get a cab.”

I step onto the curb and raise my hand into the air. It’s been so long since I hailed a cab. Six months ago, Dorian insisted I move out of the city so it would be easier for him to visit me. He set me up in a small apartment only a few minutes from his house that had a keypad entry.

Moving into that apartment was the stupidest decision I ever made.

Every time I talked back to him, he changed the combination. When I wore something he didn’t like, he changed the combination. Once, I casually mentioned bringing over some clothes for Buddy to wear, and he changed the combination.

He’d tell me the new combination. Eventually. After I groveled or sucked him off or “talked with him.” Those talks often involved Dorian’s fists.

By that time, I had cut ties with Revolver and, by extension, my other clients. I was all on my own by design. So I held my breath every time I tried that keypad, I never left the house unless I had to, and I walked on eggshells every time I was in Dorian’s presence.

I promised myself it was temporary and I wouldn’t let him get to me. I didn’t want to end up like Buddy, who based his self-worth on what Dorian said about him. But if I’m being honest with myself, sometimes Dorian’s insults stuck in my head and my heart. His fists left a few scars too.

That’s the thing about abuse. You don’t get to choose how it affects you.

There aren’t as many cabs this time of night, but I’m still able to flag one down. Manny and I climb into the back seat, our hands still clasped the entire time. It’s like being in high school again. I don’t want to stop touching him.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks from the front seat.

I rattle off the address I’ve given other cab drivers more times than I can count.

“Got it,” the driver says.

I look out the window like a tourist as we drive through the city. The great thing about taxis as opposed to Ubers is the drivers don’t have to chat with you or give you mints in the hopes of securing a five-star review. Taxi drivers know the city better too. GPS is great, but it doesn’t have the same intimate knowledge of New York City as a seasoned cab driver.

It’s comforting being back in the city and driven around by a local. It reminds me that I was once a local too—that this place could be my home again. No more keypads. No more suburbia. No more sacrificing myself so I can give my friend a ticket out of hell. I have my life back.

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