Page 4 of Dean

“And put your shit where, Avery?”

I flush, realizing the mistake I made.

“The Impala it is.”

“Ugh, that thing,” I moan, but I’m grinning because honestly, it’s sexy and loud andfun.Never in a million years would I have thought my mind would change about how dumb cars are. That was until I started working here. Now, I’m all about classic cars. I know more about them than I care to admit. And let me tell you, I love the large backseats. All the more room to fuck in.

But mostly, I like them because ofhim. Because I like Dean more than is reasonable. I know it’s ridiculous because there is zero chance that man would go for someone like me. But a boy can dream, right?

I will dream all the livelong day.

“We’ll grab your stuff and then head to my place to drop it off. You hungry?” Dean asks, his big, strong hand on the steering wheel of his 1959 Chevrolet Impala. I want him to wrap those fingers around my hair…and my dick, but I digress.

“Yeah, I could eat,” I say, buckling in.

The car rumbles beneath us as I chew on my bottom lip again. It’s an anxious habit, and right now, I’m nervous. Because apparently, I’m going to grab my stuff and move in with the man of my dreams—a man who has been a widower for almost twenty years and only dates beautiful women. I know because I’ve seen them, all long legs, pouty lips, and flowing hair. I sometimes wonder if I bent over, could he imagine I was one? Could he get over any hangups he has about me being a man if he just closed his eyes?

I should be ashamed of my thoughts, but I know I’d do it. I’d offer myself up for a chance to feel him inside of me.

I could probably be okay with once. Just fuckingonce.

“Put your address in so I know where I’m going,” Dean says, handing me his phone. On the screen, I see a picture of him with Ben,and my heart warms. But I click on the GPS app and input the coordinates, letting him drive me across town to the run-down apartment I shared with three other guys. It wasn’t my ideal living situation, but it worked…until it didn’t.

Until one of them decided he couldn’t accept who I was and lashed out. And the other two just stood there and watched it happen.

At least staying with Dean is the silver lining in all of this. I still can’t believe I agreed to it. I definitely shouldn’t have agreed to it.

We drive down the freeway, exiting about five miles down the road. It’s kind of embarrassing, showing him where I used to live. But then again, there’s nothing I can do about it. I guess I could have driven myself here, but I’m a little afraid to show up without someone with me. I kind of feel like I need protection.

Dean parks the car at the curb and then we’re out, his body so close to mine I can feel the heat radiating off him. Would he notice if I leaned in and sniffed?

He’d probably notice. My nose would totally whistle.

“This is where you live?” he asks, his lips turned down in a frown. I know what he’s thinking—that it’s not very nice and very run down.

“Well, yes. I’m twenty-two, Dean. I can’t afford a nice place. My boss pays me a shit wage.”

He scoffs and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me up against him, right into his side. And I nearly die because now that I’m tucked under his arm, I can smell him. He’s delicious in a masculine kind of way. I want to turn my face and stick my nose right in his armpit.

He smells like gasoline and fire and smoke. He’s a real meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. I want to slather him in A1 Sauce and lick every hard inch of him.

But I bet this is more of a friendly, supportive hug—something he’d do for his son or his son’s friends.

That’s all I am. A young man in trouble that he wants to save.

He has a terrible habit of doing this.

We turn a corner in the walkway, and while I try not to lean too far into him, I refuse to step away because he’s touching me and it’s making this whole shitty situation so much better. I would getkicked out of my apartment any day if it meant he’d hold me like this.

Suddenly, my eyes pivot to my dilapidated apartment door, and I almost stumble when I see it. All of my belongings look like they were tossed haphazardly outside, some of them picked through. The large black trash bag they’d stuffed my clothing into has spilled open, and one of my bright red shirts is lying on the ground. A large box sits next to it, the lid wide open and a tear on the side.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, my entire body frozen because I’ve spent years collecting these clothes, scouring thrift shops and yard sales.

And they treated it all like trash.

Listen, if my heels are gone, I am straight-up going into murder mode.

Thank god I haven’t painted in over a year. My heart would have broken if they’d destroyed my canvases.

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