Page 15 of The Cartographer

“Thanks for the ride.” He reaches for the door handle, and before I can stop myself, I reach for him, hand circling his wrist.

“There’s no way I’m letting you drive. Let me call my assistant and he’ll take care of getting your truck back to your place.”

I don’t know exactly how that would work, but those are the kinds of logistics Matthew excels at. Peter probably won’t be thrilled, but that’s not my problem.

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid? I wasn’t going to drive. The last thing I need in my life is a DUI.”

“Then what were you going to—”

He scowls at me from under his brows and his jaw clenches. My brain’s taking longer than I’d like to do the math on this, and frustration is building inside me.

“I’m not letting you sleep in your car, Hart.”

“It’s not really fucking up to you, now is it?”

Oh, he’s pissed at me now. He’s not the only one who’s irritated. “It is actually. So give me your address and I’ll take you there. I won’t come in if you don’t want me to, but I need to make sure you get home safe.”

“You did, all right? Now drive your prissy ass home in your goddamn fancy car. Calling you was a mistake.”

Realization hits me like a bucket of ice water to the face. I close my eyes to give myself time to steady my expression and my voice so I won’t betray the shock I’m feeling. I knew he wasn’t well-off, but homeless is pretty far from well-off. Although, sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s a paycheck—or lack thereof—away. He hasn’t said homeless, though from what I’ve gathered from the staff at the shelter for queer teens I’ve donated to in the past, a lot of times people refuse to identify themselves that way. Who would want to?Between places, couch-surfing, roughing it, all of those sound better—and more temporary—thanhomeless. If he hasn’t said the word, I’m sure as fuck not going to.

“Hey, Hart. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know.”

He crosses his burly arms across his chest and looks out the window again. “There’s a reason for that. I know you won’t be calling me again. Slumming it’s one thing, but this is worse than slumming. If it matters, it’s temporary. Just, you know, couldn’t make rent last month. I’ll get another place soon.”

“I don’t care.” He turns to me, and his dark eyes could cut me in half. He’s fuming and embarrassed, and my heart goes out to him. I need to fix this. “That’s not what I meant. I do care. I care about your safety. But where you sleep at night has no bearing on whether you’re a good person, and it sure as hell doesn’t have any bearing on whether I want to sleep with you.”

That’s probably fucked up. I wouldn’t want someone to fuck me because they needed a bed. Not that people haven’t had sex for worse reasons than that, but…shit. Is that what he thinks I mean?Hell, Walter, pry your foot out of your mouth and try not to let it swing around and kick you in the ass on the way out.

“Why don’t you come back to my place? I have a guest bedroom. You won’t have to see me if you don’t want to. You can leave in the morning, and if you don’t want to talk to me again, you don’t have to. But you can’t tell me you’d be more comfortable sleeping in the back of your cab than you would be in a bed. Do you even fit in there? You’re fucking huge, man.”

I’m trying to make light, and it’s either going to work or it’s going to blow up in my face. Silence is not what I’m banking on, but that’s what I get. Allie sits there, his fingers knit together in his hands, staring straight ahead.

“How about this? I’m going to start driving in sixty seconds. If you’re still in the car when I pull away, great, and if not…” If not, I’ll worry about him every second of every day, fret about whether some desperate tweaker stoned out of his mind is going to break into his truck while he’s there and hurt him. Or he could get arrested. Or…or…or…Please don’t get out of the car. Please.

He does. I feel almost faint when he pushes out the door and jogs to his truck, the taillights blinking when he unlocks it and climbs inside.Don’t start it. Don’t drive off. At least give me that.He doesn’t start it, just reaches into the back of the cab, and I force my breath in and out. It’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’s not so drunk anymore, and who knows how long he’s been doing this? He doesn’t need someone who knows nothing about how he lives his life telling him what to do.

Would he have been more comfortable at my house? Maybe physically. But I of all people should know psychological pain can run just as deep, mess with you as much. I put the car in reverse, ready to leave, but then the door to Allie’s truck is opening again and he’s hopping out, trotting back to my car, and wrenching the passenger-side door open.

“Dude. You said I had sixty seconds. It’s only been fifty-three.”

He counted. Under the circumstances that shouldn’t make me feel anything but relieved, but the mind works in mysterious ways and I picture some other circumstances under which I might make him count for me. Out loud. How hot that would be.

He clicks the remote, and the taillights blink again as he slides in with a small bag and buckles up. I should drive away before he changes his mind, but I’m surprised and for once I can’t hide it.

“Are we gonna go? Because I have to say, I’m tired and a bed sounded good.”

I shake myself out of it because I can hear the strain in his voice, how hard this is for him, and fuck all if I’m going to make it any harder. So I put the car in drive and accelerate, leaving Allie’s truck in no-man’s land.

*

About halfway home,I can’t help but ask. “What did you get?”

He sneaks a glance at me and then looks down at the bag on the floor, as though he’s making sure it’s still there. “Clothes. Phone charger. Toothbrush. Dental hygiene is important.”

A toothbrush. This man is killing me.

I look over at him when I pull up to a stoplight. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

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