Page 77 of Shiver
But I’m eating and going to classes. I set myself a dozen alarms to make sure I’m doing all this. Otherwise, I’d likely have curled up into a ball and just… slept.
“Egon,” Rake says, his voice quiet.
I blink so I’m concentrating on him again. The not knowing. Remembering his sudden coldness toward me and then his absence. It wore on me in a way I didn’t understand. Like something was cut free, and I was just free-falling. Floating about with no direction.
Confused. Frustrated. And so fucking hurt I couldn’t put it into words.
Not that I tried. Who was going to understand?
“Come on. Let’s get you washed for real. Then we can talk.”
I go willingly when he leads me toward his bathroom and strip off my clothes. His hands are business-like and it stings because I don’t want to be just a person here. I want him to want me like he had before. To see the arousal and attraction in his eyes when he looks at me, not the sad, guarded darkness in his eyes.
More than anything, I need him to take me in his arms and hug me. To make it all go away. To tell me what I did wrong so I can never do it again. I need him to heal all the broken pieces of my heart.
He pushes me gently into the shower but doesn’t join me. Rake stands just outside and tips my head back. I close my eyes against the spray of water as he rinses my hair. And then his business-like hands go about cleaning my body. Which is probably good. I didn’t use soap when I passed through the locker room shower. I probably smell disgusting.
Rake pulls me out when he is done and wraps a big towel around me. I bury my face in it as he scrubs it against my head, pausing when I do. “This is new,” I say.
A quiet hum leaves him but he doesn’t say anything else.
Leaving the bathroom, he gives me a pair of sweats. I take them, slip them on, but leave the shirt. He’s already stripped from his ice rink garb so he’s not sweating. And then we’re standing there, looking at each other.
I need him to touch me. But I can’t bring myself to ask. Swallowing, I turn my head and then look around in confusion. Everything is different. “What happened?”
He huffs. I turn back in time to see him run a frustrated hand through his hair. “I moved my room around because everywhere I looked reminded me of you.” He stops, frowning. “This isn’t an improvement. I still see you everywhere.”
His words just confuse me more. I shake my head, needing him to tell me something that makes sense. “Rakesh, tell me what I did. Please.”
He looks miserable when he scowls at me. Taking my hand, he pulls me to his bed and urges me to climb in. I do and he follows. But he doesn’t take me into his arms. I’m cold. I need his touch.
“Rake,” I say, feeling my chest tighten. “Why won’t you touch me?”
The noise that comes from him sounds pained. And then I’m pressed to his chest, his fingers tight in my hair. He slings a leg over me, pinning my body to his.
“I didn’t know if you’d want me to,” he answers.
I grip him tightly. “Tell me. I need to know.”
He sighs. “Remember when you learned about Temca? You were convinced that you’re a bad person because you didn’t like to commit and no one could get that through their fucking heads.”
A chuckle escapes me and I shake my head. “Yeah.” I’m still not convinced I’m not a bad person.
“You’re not a bad person,” he says, as if reading my mind. I grin. “You’re not, Egon. But I am.”
My fingers dig into his back as I bury my face in his chest. Maybe I don’t want to know. Before I can tell him that, he continues.
“So many gay men will tell you that it was hard growing up. Knowing you liked men when you should like women. The struggle to date and to live and be accepted.” He pauses for a second. “I didn’t have that problem. I’ve never struggled with my sexuality, and I didn’t live in a place that was particularly harsh against the queer community. Because of that, I didn’t have any problems at all finding someone to fuck.”
I grin, not sure where this is going. But I’m not surprised by this admission.
“In fact, it was too fucking easy. So easy that it was boring as hell. Gay men are ecstatic when someone wants to hook up. It felt so… empty. Transactional. There was just nothing in it that excited me. So I decided that I’d try something that was more of a challenge. If gay men were all too ready to fall onto my dick, I needed someone other than gay.”
“Straight,” I say.
“Yeah,” he answers, as if he’s sad about it. I’m not sure why he’s sad. I’m following this story. “I started setting goals for myself when I got bored. Seducing straight men became a hobby of mine. The more homophobic or toxically straight, the better target they made. My success rate is impressively high.”
I snort.
