Page 18 of On the Edge

“What is ‘stress release’?”

His eyes track over to the schedule and his head angles to the left slightly, like he’s thinking. He fidgets a little bit, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth like he’s embarrassed.

“I like to stay organized,” he says slowly.

Obviously, I think, glancing around at the nearly sterile room. The dirtiest thing in here is me.

“That is when I will sometimes…” He trails off, closes his eyes, and sighs. Lifting his right hand off his leg, he does a short jerking motion before dropping his hand back into his lap. Swallowing my half-chewed bite, I raise my eyebrows.

“You schedule a time to jerk off?”

He looks embarrassed by me saying it out loud. Normally, I’d probably balk at having this conversation—or any—with him. But I’m hungover as fuck, my puke is between us in the trash can, and I’m not wearing pants. We’ve gone beyond modesty, and now I’m curious.

“Porn guy?” I ask, smirking around my bite of sandwich as he blushes.

“No. I do not like that so much.”

I take another bite of sandwich and a swig of water. This conversation is doing more to perk me up than any greasy food ever could. Who knew talking to prim-and-proper Henri about wanking would be so much fun?

“What’s wrong with porn?” I ask.

He stares at me for a second, clearly trying to decide whether or not to answer me. Seemingly deciding that he wants to take advantage of my apparent chattiness, he crosses an ankle over one knee and leans back in the chair.

“Porn is distracting, because I start to wonder if they are fairly compensated and having a good time. It is not so enjoyable for me. Also, it is not…I do not…well, it does not work for me, that is all. I do not like it.”

I laugh, but immediately have to stop when my head threatens to explode. “Christ, only you.”

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, deftly changing the subject. I shrug, reaching for the second breakfast sandwich.

“Not really. Sorry, by the way, for…you know. Calling you,” I mumble around a mouthful.

“It is fine. But I do not like your friends or the place you were at. It was not safe.” He pauses, thinking. “Or clean.”

I don’t remember where I ended up last night, so I stay silent. There’d been a party at Foggers—that much I remember—but parties there didn’t always stay there. I hadn’t been having a great day yesterday, which means I probably made some questionable decisions about what I ingested and whom I ingested it with. I’m not known for having good judgement when I’ve been drinking, which would also explain why I called Henri, of all people, to pick me up.

“Where did you pick me up from, anyway?” He taps through his phone before holding it out to me to show me the map app. Squinting down at the screen, I try to decide if I recognize it or not. “I don’t know that address.”

“Atlas!” Henri protests. “You should not be going to strange houses when you have been drinking. What if something bad happened to you?”

Nobody would have given a fuck. I shrug. “It’s fine.”

“No, it is not fine. I am thinking your friends are not really friends at all and they should be taking better care of you. There was alcoholanddrugs at that house. It was filthy!”

Feeling strange about the turn this conversation has taken, I look away from him. Why the hell does he care so much? He’s not even faking it. Earnestness rolls off of him in waves, and the air is thick with his concern. Taking another sip of water, I nod toward him and change the subject.

“No polo shirt today, I see.”

“It is the weekend,” he replies, as though this matters at all. Setting the bottle back down, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. I’m feeling better, whether from the water and food, or from the strangeness of this encounter. I’m also feeling oddly glad that I called him. There isn’t an ounce of judgement in his eyes, nor does he seem unduly put out by me sleeping in his bed or emptying the contents of my stomach into his trash. Apparently, Nate was being truthful when he said nothing can phase this guy.

“I do anything crazy here last night?” I ask. “I can’t really remember.”

“No, you were fine,” he answers, but averts his eyes in a way that tells me it’s a lie.

“Did I hit on you?” His gaze snaps back to mine and I shrug. “I’m a flirty drunk and you’re hot.”

His eyebrows wing upward at my admission that I find him attractive. I roll my eyes. Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I’m fucking blind. I’m not going to act on it, but I can certainly enjoy the view.

“You did, but nothing happened,” he reassures me hastily.

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