Page 83 of Under Pressure

“What did he say?” I pull on my shoes as he’s talking and grab a sweater, walking out to the parking lot.

“That I was making a mistake ending things with you. I tried explaining that we were never anything to begin with, but he didn’t believe me. I don’t think I believe me either.”

I search the lot and finally spot his Camry, him sitting in the driver’s seat, his eyes closed and head leaning back against the headrest.

“So then I thought I should come over and talk to you, but I needed some liquid courage first, so I stopped and got some whiskey at the liquor store. I parked here and started drinking, but I think I went overboard because I can’t seem to get out of the car now,” he rambles.

I knock on the window and hang up the call. He looks over at me, his eyes glassy. I open his door and crouch down so I’m eye level with him. “Do you want to come in?”

He nods and then closes his eyes as a look of pain crosses his face.

I somehow miraculously get him out of his car through sheer willpower, his big body leaning heavily on me. Jesus, how much does muscle weigh? Once I have him upright, he seems to be a little better but still uses me as support to get through my door. “Do you want to lie on the couch?”

He leans against the wall leading to the kitchen, watching me, heat behind the haze in his eyes. “I want to lie in your bed. With you. Feel your soft skin against mine. The way you sigh for me. Moan for me. How you curl yourself against me, your hand on my chest. I’ve never cuddled with a girl before you.”

I let out a weak chuckle, astounded. How much would I have loved to hear that the last time he was here? Was there more than just alcohol in whatever he drank? Maybe some kind of truth serum?

“Tyler.” I shake my head, blocking out his wonderful words. “You can’t just show up here and say things and expect it to make everything from before magically go away. Especially not drunk.”

He turns and shuffles into my bedroom, using the wall as a guide to support him, and sits down on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.” When he looks up, there’s moisture in his eyes.

Is it wrong of me that I wish he’d drink more often if it has him confessing things, apologizing, showing real human emotions?

“Here, take off your shoes.” I bend down in front of him, helping him remove them. When I look back up, he reaches out a hand slowly, brushing his knuckles along my jaw. I close my eyes, containing a shiver, and stand again, stepping away. “Just go to sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”

He nods, looking contrite, and scoots back on the bed, getting under the covers.

I grab my extra pillow and a spare blanket out of my closet, turning to head out of the room.

“Where are you going?” he asks, sitting up suddenly. He winces, grabbing his forehead at the too fast movement.

“To sleep on the couch.”

“Sleep with me.” His voice is pleading, so unlike his normal self. “Just sleeping. I just want you next to me. No—no touching.”

I stare at him, knowing it’s wrong, like I’d be taking advantage of him, but walk back over anyway, longing for my comfortable mattress rather than the lumpy couch. I grab my pajama pants off the floor and turn off the light, slipping off my jeans to change into them. Not that he hasn’t seen me half dressed before, but it feels different now. I cautiously lie down, pulling the covers over me, and face him.

In the dim light coming from my window I see him watching me, his gaze tender. “I never told you how beautiful you are. I thought it a million times, but I never said it.”

I close my eyes, a pang going through me. “Tyler…”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

He shifts under the duvet, silent while I breathe him in, the masculine scent both calming and exciting me. Will my pillow smell like him tomorrow?

“And I never said how smart you are,” he picks up again. “And how—”

I cover his mouth with my hand, his breath tickling my palm. “I need you to say these things in the morning. When you’re sober. They don’t mean anything otherwise.”

He puts his hand on my wrist, bringing it down until he can interlace our fingers. “I’m afraid I won’t have the courage in the morning,” he whispers, his words hardly slurred now.

“Good night, Tyler.” I let go of his hand and turn over, trying to block his presence out, repeating relaxation techniques over and over in my head until they finally work and I drift off.

I wake once during the night to find his arm slung over my middle, his front pressed tightly against my back, our legs intertwined. I can’t recall ever being this comfortable, his body heat warming me through, so safe and snug in his embrace.

It feels too good to make a big deal out of and I sleep easily now, breathing him in.

But when I wake in the morning, he’s gone.

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