Page 57 of Without You

“Yourself. Stop talking about yourself like you’re nobody.” My voice rises, and I can feel my resolve slipping. “You don’t let anybody in—by choice. And I respect that, but don’t take everybody else’s opinion on board when you haven’t given them the whole picture.”

“You basing all of this on a packet of candy corn?” he sneers.

“Fuck you, Deacon,” I spit back. “Whatever you’re trying isn’t going to work.”

Grabbing a bunch of napkins, I wipe the pizza grease off my hands, and raise my almost empty bottle of water to my lips. Finishing it off, I pile up my mess on the paper plate and rise in frustration. “Thanks for tonight, but I’m going home.”

“You can hate me all you want, but I’m not letting you go home by yourself.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a fucking babysitter, Deacon.”

Haphazardly, I step around the plastic furniture, knocking the chair with my foot, and making the most ungraceful exit known to mankind. He isn’t calling after me, but I can feel him close behind all the same.

The crowd disperses the closer I get to the exit. The moment I pass the threshold the cold air hits me hard, the perfect reprieve for the overwhelming tornado of heat inside me.

Not wanting to be a public spectacle, I veer off to the side and lean against a closed shop window.

It takes less than a second for him to see me, and somehow even less time for him to be standing right in front of me. He places his hands on the window behind me, stretching out his arms, so he’s caging me in. His face peers down at mine. He’s furious, a pulsing vein appearing in the middle of his forehead.

“Leave me alone, Deacon,” I say dryly, my voice lying for me, while my quick and shallow breathing, and the rise and fall of my chest expose all my truths. My heart is bouncing around in my rib cage, the thump echoing in my ears.

I try to feign indifference, to ward him off, but the inferno blazing inside his eyes makes it impossible. He angles his head, lowering his mouth to my ear, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”

13

Deacon

The apathy on his face morphs, first into shock, and then in anticipation. He licks his lips, and like fucking clockwork my gaze drops.

“What is it you think I’m doing to you?” he says, challenging me, his voice low and thick.

“Why do I keep staring at your lips?” It’s an impossible question to ask, and one I know neither of us has the answer to. But I’m only a man, standing here, with nothing left but my vulnerability and honesty, hoping that’s enough for me to wade through this clusterfuck.

“Am I supposed to answer you?” he quips.

Ignoring the taunt, I go on with my thoughts, letting the words tumble out of my mouth freely. “Does it bother you that I can’t seem to take my eyes off them?”

His gaze flicks up to mine, and I watch the tip of his tongue grace his wet, plump, bottom lip. “Does it bother you?”

“Fuck you, Julian.” The words are empty as I hang my head between us, force my eyes shut and whisper. “I’m going to fuck this up.”

“Blame the alcohol.”

I snap my head up. “What?”

“Do whatever it is you feel.” He places his hands on my chest, and I feel the heat transfer between us. “And instead of it being awkward after, we’ll blame it on the alcohol.”

“And everything will go back to normal?” I ask, almost hopeful.Why the fuck am I considering this?

“You mean you’ll go home and I’ll be here, and we’ll hate each other?” His gaze darts out of focus, as the last half of the sentence comes out croaky; almost like the words pain him. “Yeah sure.”

With a mind of its own, my hand reaches for his chin, and brings his focus back to mine. “I’m an asshole, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Let me go home, Deacon,” he says with a sigh. He wraps his fingers around my wrist. “Sleep off whatever it is you’re feeling, because it’ll probably be gone tomorrow.”

Dropping my hand, his falls too. I take a step back and shake my head at him, laughing humorlessly. “I can’t.”

He straightens his stance against the glass window. “What do you mean you can’t?”

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