Page 10 of Diamond Ring
Alex gets up to hug him in greeting. A hug that becomes a lean when the room shifts, and he finds himself burrowed in Jake’s neck. His face fits just right in the curve of Jake’s shoulder and the walls have mostly stopped moving and also Jake smells pretty good.
The last of which he must say out loud, because Jake laughs again. “Whereas you smell like a brewery. Did you cash out?”
“He paid,” the bartender says.
Jake takes out his wallet, unfolding a few bills. “For your trouble.”
“He’s not really any trouble.”
“Wait ’til I have to get him into my truck. He’s heavier than he looks.”
Alex gives an indignant “Hey!” because that had the shape of a short joke, and also because he doesn’t want to go out into the Oakland night where it’s probably chilly.
“I thought you said it wasn’t even cold.” Jake peels off his vest, handing it to Alex. It’s big on him and smells like Jake. “Let’s go. Tell the nice bartender goodbye, Alex.”
Alex waves as they navigate across the open floor of the bar, Jake steering him out into the waiting street.
“I’m glad you called,” Jake says when they’re outside at his truck. “There’s no way you could have driven like this.”
“I wouldn’t.” He says it possibly too emphatically because Jake leans away slightly, until Alex adds, “And I didn’t call—the buttons wouldn’t work.”
Jake laughs and helps Alex into his truck, hands braced against Alex’s back.
Alex has sort of sobered up by the time that they pull into a visitors’ space at his building, a whole block from Jake’s because they discussed it before deciding where to rent for the season.
“You good or you need help?” Jake asks.
Alex breaks what he needs to do into its components: get out of the truck. Walk across the parking garage lot. Press the button to call the elevator. Wait for the elevator to arrive. When he hasn’t said anything, Jake says, “Yeah, okay, point taken,” and hops out of the driver’s side to open Alex’s door.
Alex doesn’t fall out of the truck. Mostly because Jake is there to catch him.
His arms wrap Jake’s shoulders, face pressed into him. Tomorrow—in whatever hazy future such a time exists—Alex will blame the beer, the shots, the Oakland night, whatever. Now he rubs his face against the exposed skin at Jake’s neck, the soft ends of his hair. Alex should let go. He should. Except for the way that Jake is laughing and guiding them toward the bank of elevators.
Up at his apartment, Alex fumbles the key into the lock, for the living room switch on the wall. The lights are over-bright. Tomorrow’s hangover is going to suck.
“C’mon.” Jake directs Alex toward his bedroom, to the soft landing of his bed.
Alex’s shoes are on; his clothes smell like the bar. He tries to remove them all at once and ends up half struggling with his shirt.
“Here, sit.” Jake seats him on the edge of his bed, then kneels, tugging at Alex’s shoelaces. “Did you double-knot these?”
He looks up at Alex with slight outrage, his gray-green eyes veiled under his eyelashes, his tongue poking out in frustration against his bottom lip. Alex wants a lot of things. For the room to stop spinning. To go to sleep. But mostly he wants to kiss Jake—a want that feels almost geological in its urgency, like plates shifting along a fault line.
So Alex leans over.
And misses. He folds himself in half, overwhelmed by nausea.
“Let me get you some water.” One of Jake’s big pitcher’s hands cups Alex’s cheek, and Alex is drunk enough for plausible deniability. He turns his face, lips catching the callus on Jake’s palm.
“You’re kind of a handsy drunk,” Jake says.
It’s enough to shake Alex out of whatever this is, to heave himself across his empty bed with a sigh, one foot stationed on the floor to keep the walls still.
Jake comes back with a bottle of water, then rummages through Alex’s nightstand drawer before withdrawing a canister of Advil. He starts laughing when he sees Alex struggling to take off his shirt.
“All right, you’re getting the full service on this, but I’m gonna remember it the next time I’m hammered.” Jake reaches for the hem, pulling it up, leaving Alex chewing on cotton momentarily before he pulls it off.
Alex has thought about this, usually at the time of night when indulgence replaces guilt. Jake, in his bedroom, helping him out of his clothes. Jake, running his hand down Alex’s stomach, fingers on the button of his waistband, like he’s doing now. How easy it’d be to pull him down, gravity doing most of the work, Jake falling onto him.
