Page 133 of Outcast
“I am now.” He pulled away and shifted the car into drive. “How do you feel about seeing my place?”
“Sounds great.”
Emory’s apartment was only a five-minute drive from the jail. He lived in a cute little row of brick town houses a few blocks from downtown. He pulled into the driveway spot allotted for Town House 3, then led me to a navy blue door.
“Whose car is this?”
He pulled out his keys. “It’s my mom’s. My car is still out at the auto shop.”
“Right.” I winced. “My bike is over at the bar, unless the owner called Holden.”
One more mess for him to clean up. Maybe he had good reason to be pissed.
Emory unlocked the door, and I followed him inside, my gaze immediately drawn to the art on the walls. There were different styles: landscapes, still portraits, and bright, playful designs that reminded me of pop art.
They weren’t all works by Emory, but it was easy to pick out the ones that were. There was a boldness to the strokes and colors that reminded me of the sketches I’d seen. No wonder my tattoos had fascinated him—there was a similarity to his natural style that must call to him.
“Emory, fuck. How are you not a professional artist?”
A small, sad smile crept across his face. “Maybe if I’ve lost my family, I can think about it.”
I turned, concerned. “What happened?”
“I told them everything.”
My eyes widened. “So they know?—”
“That we’re together and that Dallas was harassing me. My dad was so mad at you guys, and he was saying all this unfair shit. I couldn’t let him do that. Only now—” His voice broke. “How do I ever make up for disappointing them like this?”
“Oh, golden boy.” I crossed to him in two long strides, tugging him into my arms. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t let Dallas piss me off and started a fight, we wouldn’t have gotten arrested, and you wouldn’t be in this mess. I fucked up everything.”
“Dallas started it, not you.” Emory pulled back, eyes wide and sad. “Besides, I would have had to tell them, eventually. How could I not when the trade-off is you?”
“I’m not worth that.”
“Youare,” Emory insisted. “You’re the first person to make me feel like myself. Towantsomething for me. I didn’t do thisforyou, Gray. I did it for me. Because I can’t walk away. I don’t want to. Because I-I…” He stumbled over his words a bit.
“What?” I whispered.
“I love you,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “Maybe it’s too soon, and maybe this is the worst possible time to tell you, but?—”
“I love you too,” I cut in. “So fucking much.”
“Oh, thank god,” he said. “I was afraid I’d lose you and my family both. I don’t think I could handle that.”
I brought him in for a gentle, lingering kiss. “You can’t get rid of me that easy. I’m here for you, always.”
“Good.” He smiled tentatively. “Take a shower with me?”
“I knew there was a reason I loved you,” I teased. “I’mdyingto rinse off the jail stink.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, me too.”
I followed him into a small, tidy bathroom with bright orange floor mats. Emory seemed to love color. I’d been captivated by his art, but his whole living room had been an explosion of bright shades of yellow, orange, and red. It was so at odds with the business attire he wore to the bank I wondered how the poor guy didn’t suffocate in the bland, corporate atmosphere.
He stripped off the teal T-shirt he’d worn to the Granville festival yesterday, and I stopped thinking about what Emory wore and admired what hedidn’twear instead. He shimmied out of his jeans, stopping with them halfway down his thighs.
“You going to shower in your clothes?”
