Page 63 of Ravens
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After dealing, Carter explains the game of Kings, which involves slowly filling up a communal glass in the center of the table round by round until the loser is declared and has to drink the mixed swill. August is the first loser, who ends up drinking a beer and whiskey concoction.
I lose the next round, which has tequila mixed in, and it takes everything I have not to lose my pizza on the table. By eight o’clock, the game has gone off the rails, everyone is buzzed, and the stories of love start coming out. I’ve had enough to drinkand enough of the stories, so I fade into the background after excusing myself to the bathroom.
Upstairs, I get cleaned up, but the beer is sitting heavily, and things are swimming before my eyes, so I don’t risk trying to get back down the stairs and flop on York’s bed instead.
“Do you need help?” William’s voice sounds in the dark.
The intrusion makes me pause. “No.”
“You know this isn’t your room, right?”
“I need a minute before I attempt the stairs.” I sigh. “It’s fine.”
“Do you want me to carry you down the stairs?”
For the love of. . . I roll over and look toward him. In the dark, he’s just a tall silhouette with smoothed back hair leaning against the doorframe. It’s not like he’s weaving on his feet or anything, but he’s obviously had enough to drink that he thinks we’re friends now.
“Come on, Trip.” He comes into the room, and another silhouette appears outside the door behind him. “If you could stop hating me for just a second, I’d be happy to assist you.”
“With?” York’s voice cuts in.
William’s head turns toward York’s voice. “Nothing. Just thought she needed a hand to her own bed is all.”
York steps in and takes the door handle. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s slept in my bed, Will. Let’s go.”
Rubbing his jaw, William turns and walks past York without a word, disappearing down the hall.
“Everything okay?”
I nod. “Just a bit drunk.”
Laughing quietly, York pulls the door closed and leaves me alone in the dark. It’s unfortunate because the booze may have me swimming a bit, but it also has me horny. York is very fly-by-night with his affection, though. It’s hard to predict when he’ll pay me any attention, let alone want to jump my bones . . . but maybe that’s an unfair assessment. There is obviously something between us, but I only ever get to taste it when we’re alone.
I stuff my gun under the pillow and then tackle my pants.
There was that moment this morning where I felt that I could love him . . . one day, but the hot-and-cold nature of our reality makes me think that I’m just suffering from lust. He deprives me of himself, just long enough for me to feel desperate. Plus, the last week has been a lot to deal with, and I’m getting laid, all of which is messing with my head.
He likes to say intense things in the throes of it, but it’s not real. It can’t be. It’s all just part of the York experience. Even in moments where we’re alone, when I manage to keep my clothes on, the conversation and even the silence with him feels intense.
I don’t believe it’s possible to fall in love with someone after only a week. Well . . . possible, but imprudent. Telling me he wants to keep me is a mindfuck, although maybe not an intentional one. If I’m suffering from lust, then maybe he is too.
With my clothes in a pile beside the bed, I pull the blanket up and sink into the pillow.
I like his intensity though . . . I like the crazy shit he whispers to me in private, even if I can’t buy into it. I like hearing it. I like the way he uses my body as if he has a right to it, some innate authority over it that lets him manipulate it into feeling things it isn’t used to. Things it likes and now craves, things I don’t need to ask for and don’t even know how to.
Yes. It’s lust, and it can’t last much longer . . . None of this will. We’re going to do whatever we do tomorrow, and that might be the end of it.
August and York will probably disappear overseas, and William and Carter will seep back into the landscape of America like the little sleepers they are . . . or maybe they’ll get called home too.
And then it will just be me. No more career. A fugitive.
Unless I defect. What a shit show that would be. Technically, I’d just disappear, right? It’s not like there would be an announcement in Congress, that is, until the British make a case against the States, and then I’d have to pop back up into the line of fire.
The positives of defecting are short-term. I’ll be right back in this boat once Central Intelligence gets wind that I’m alive or the British are building a case against them. I’ll be ferreted out so fucking fast.
I press my fingers to my temples with a sigh and try to wind myself down. No good can come of overthinking any of it. All I can do is take it as it comes. So, tomorrow, we’ll see how it goes . . . and take it from there.
