Page 113 of Stabby Little

I'm imagining things. Fuck knows there are millions of blue-eyed beauties in this city. I've been searching for Ollie for seven years—wires must be twisting in my brain. Besides, Ollie has dark hair and my kitty has blond.

Because if I’m not mistaken, the consequences are too dire to bear.

35

OLLIE

Tuesday, June 16th

The taxi grindsto a halt as I pull up in front of Grant's house. I place my palms on the window, peering through the glass at the two-story suburban estate that rises against the clear blue sky. The storms we dealt with a few weeks ago have passed and the sun is shining.

"Forty dollars." The taxi driver taps the meter.

I pull out my wallet and hand him two twenty-dollar bills. "Thanks for the ride."

"Do you need me to wait around?" He turns to me. "There aren't many cabs that come through here."

I shake my head. "That won't be necessary."

After thanking the driver one last time, I climb out of the backseat and step onto the street. My feet find the walkway that leads to his front door, and I cross it before my nerves get the best of me.

I don't know why I'm here. I ran out on Grant last time and I have no reason to believe he wants to see me again.

Maybe my night at the Little Bunny Club this past weekend confused me. I need security and stability. My mystery man took me to the stars, but I didn't want to take the next step with him.

It sounds terrible, but as he made love to me, I could only think of Grant. I pictured Grant's body bucking into me, his lips kissing mine, our breath mingling. I closed my eyes and imagined he was doing the forbidden things I fantasized about in the warehouse, claiming my body as his own, treating me like the most special boy in the world.

It doesn't matter if Grant wants you or not. Quit being a pansy and knock on his door.

Sucking in a breath, I raise my hand to tap the glass. I issue three curt raps, then step back and wait for him to approach. No doubt he's at his center island sipping a cup of coffee, buried in work, or reading the newspaper. He loved reading the newspaper when I visited as a boy. He didn't care that paper newspapers were a relic of the past or that he could get any news he wanted online. He told me his mother read the paper every morning after his father went to work, and he was never close to his parents, so this was one of the only positive memories he had.

A shadow moves inside the house. I drag in a breath, peering through the glass to see who it is. Truthfully, it could be anyone. Grant implied he was single when he confided in me about Linda, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have hookups. He could have a female visitor. He didn't say he had a partner, but it's possible he met someone he invited to spend the night. It's Sunday morning, after all. The last thing I need is to run into Grant's hookup. I'd sprint after the cabbie and beg him to take me away from here.

A hand reaches for the door and twists it open. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding as Grant appears in his pajamas.

Alone—thank fuck.

Like the last two times, he wears a pair of comfortable animal fur slippers. His flannel pajama top accentuates his firm muscles under his Dad bod belly, making them bulge out of his chest. His jaw is clean-shaven and sharp, even more chiseled than I remember. His salt-and-pepper hair sits uncombed on his forehead, damp and messy from what I assume is a recent shower. I inhale deeply and drag the scent of Irish Spring soap into my nose, then rub my palms on my khakis.

This is theexactsame body wash he used on Sunday mornings. On weekdays, he opted for Old Spice body wash, an enormous red bottle he purchased at Costco. I always sniffed it whenever I used the bathroom, burying my nose in the cap to capture the scent. On Sundays, he swapped the Old Spice out for the green bottle, one that was equally as large. Miles said Grant had a thing about work routines versus relaxation: if he used the Old Spice on weekends, he felt like he needed to work. By contrast, if he began the day with Irish Spring, it signaled to his brain that he could take his foot off the gas.

That's what I smell now. I inhale once again, a wave of long-forgotten memories rolling over me. I begged my mother to purchase this exact body wash when we went shopping as a boy, but I never told her why. She thought I was odd and assumed I'd seen it in a commercial. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Grant, the coolest man in the world, the man I wanted to be friends with more than anyone, introduced it to me.

Grant shoots me a surprised look. "Ollie." He takes a step back. “I didn't expect to see you again."

I step into his home. "I'd lie and say I was in the neighborhood, but you'd see through that."

"You're not wrong." Grant lets out a snort. "I don't even want to guess how long you biked."

"I took a cab." I feel like a fool for confessing I paid for a taxi, but I refuse to lie. Grant deserves to know the truth. After the way I departed last time, I didn't want to risk getting a flat tire on the way here. I needed to see him ASAP. "I want to apologize for rushing out last time.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“It wasn't fair. You were so kind to make me buttermilk pancakes and I turned my back on your kindness. I freaked out when we discussed my captors. I haven't told anyone what's happened to me besides my friends. You're the first person from my past I've confided in, and I think it overwhelmed me."

Grant shakes his head. "I shouldn't have pressed you to tell me your captors' names. I was too forward."

"Not at all." I remove my shoes and brush dirt from my socks. "I just promised myself I wouldn't share that information with anyone."

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