Page 79 of Choke

“Adrian, you can stay with Lex if you like. Then, I can drive you to the course in the morning.”

His tone is so casual; he doesn’t understand the favor he just did me, and I make a mental note to buy him a drink tomorrow in thanks for the offer. Her eyes widen, and I slide my arm around her waist and look at Aleks before she can decline.

“Thanks, man. I’d love to.”

She shifts nervously, her hands balling into fists, her eyes filling with intensity, but she doesn’t move. We say goodbye to the guys, and I wish Aleks luck with whatever awaits him behind his bedroom door before urging Lex toward the room she’s staying in. She wraps both arms around her midsection nervously as she slowly walks; I follow closely behind, breathing in that warm vanilla scent that will always bring me back to that first night in the bar.

We reach the door, and I notice the bathroom, letting her continue into the bedroom alone and closing the bathroom door behind me. I didn’t know if this would work out, and I have nothing with me for an overnight. Looking at the countertop, I spot her small bag of makeup and a toothbrush on top. I can easily say I’ve never been one to share atoothbrush, but she’s different, this is different, and I’ve been drinking beer all night. I quickly scrub my teeth and rinse my mouth with cold water before turning off the light, walking to the bedroom door, and pausing outside, listening intently to see if I can predict what she is doing in there, what she’s thinking.

Something shifted in the kitchen. She looked at me differently. She felt different against me.

But she left. I need her to understand what she can and can’t do.

And she can’t leave me. Ever.

She’ll learn.

Crawl to Me

Lex

I’ve never understood the saying, ‘the silence is deafening,’ until right now, waiting in this room for him to come in. I can’t stop moving, fidgeting back and forth. My skin feels like it’s covered in ants, and I have this overwhelming need to put space between the door and myself. Looking around the room, at the large bed still rumpled from when I climbed out of it, the mirror on the dresser, my suitcase. Despite being a large room, it feels cluttered and busy, and now probably isn’t the time to reorganize things.

My feet slowly move, backing me toward the far corner; if I’m there, I can see the entire room, and nothing can take me by surprise. As my shoulders touch the wall, the door quietly opens, and now not only does the room feel cluttered, but the air feels like oil. It’s so thick. Taking him in fully, I’m caught between cursing my physical reaction to his beauty and encouraging myself to run to him.

I’ve never felt more conflicted about anything, especially a man. He’s also so thick everywhere, lean muscles under fitted clothes, one arm covered in tattoos, and I can make out a bear, maybe an eagle. I want to explore him and ask him if they have any meaning. Mine only means I can hide under them.

Does he feel like I do—trapped in a body that never quite feels his own?

He leans back against the door, hands in his pockets, and the stance is passive. For the first time, I don’t feel the need to run away; I want to be here. I want to know more about him, but it appears I’ve entirelylost the ability to speak, and the silence booms in my ears. The sound of my heart beating, the sound of him breathing in and out slowly.

I glide my hands up and down my thighs, practicing an exercise my therapist taught me. I feel the lush carpet under my feet, the warmth of my legs under my hands, the sensation of my hands moving. I can’t spin out. His hand moves up and removes his baseball hat, placing it on the dresser next to him and then returning to scrub a hand over his scalp, across the very short, almost not-there stubble. The muscles in his arms flex with the movement, biceps straining under his shirt. He’s so much bigger than any man I’ve ever been with or been attracted to, but I can’t deny that I want to feel what it would be like if he positioned himself over me.

I’m desperately trying to figure out how to break the silence when he steps forward and our eyes lock.

“Lex,”

My name sounds like butter on his tongue, and my stomach flips. I want to hear him repeat it; I want to listen to him groan it.

“Say it again,” I whisper, the desire evident in my tone.

His eyebrow shoots up at the request, and I think I like this expression. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning, seeing the pile of presents with his name on them.

“You left.”

I did. I did leave. This had been planned for a couple of months.

“I…”

“You should have told me.”

This display of… hurt? It’s confusing coming from him.

I couldn’t possibly describe what I’m feeling—desire and annoyance, guilt, maybe.

His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

“You’ll always tell me where you’re going.”

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