Chapter Twelve

“River, you got a visitor,” Cheyenne said. River started. He had a client due in an hour and was still fiddling with designs to show him.

“My next appointment—”

“It’s not an appointment. It’s your mom.” Cheyenne wore a flared polka-dot skirt. It brushed against his leg when she moved. River stared at it and took a breath, counted the dots until he was brought back by her hand on his shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, yeah.” River closed his sketchbook and centered it on his counter, laying the pencil straight next to it. “Lead on.”

Cheyenne flattened an unconvinced look at him but turned without a word.

“Sweetheart, hi.” Megan leaned in to kiss his cheek, which warmed. She was bright-eyed and happy. Sober. River’s smile was tentative; distrustful but pleased. “I thought I’d take you to lunch.”

Megan always had some nerve. Offering to pay for lunch so that she could borrow money—that was rich, but predictable. “I have an appointment in an hour,” River explained. “I’m sorry—maybe another day?”

“I don’t know, honey,” Megan said. Each year wrote on her face exponentially. She looked older than she should. “You know how hard it is for me to find time to come out. It’s the least you could do. How could I know you’d be busy?”

Asking her to wait until he was ready would be useless. River counted to seven. Reminded himself that he didn’t owe her anything, that forgiveness was an everyday practice, but that he was flawed. Some days were easier than others. Her phone call on Sunday went unacknowledged. For all River knew, she didn’t even remember it. Sitting in that disappointment—the unknown of failed sobriety—had been set aside. Erik at his apartment, Erik in his bed, using him, the shattering silence that had followed, hollowing him. It quieted everything.

Guilt seeped through his irritation, an instinct he’d never shed. It was the bloom of Narcissus, his mother’s magic, how everything turned toward her, always, including him. No matter how hard he fought himself, he’d give her the money. He bailed her out of financial trouble over and over, and always made her swear not to tell Val. She needs to fall flat, Val would say. You’re enabling her.

River flipped through the appointment book, ignoring Cheyenne’s hiss of displeasure. “Look, I’m free around four most of next week. Why don’t we plan something then? I’ll pay for a ride; you won’t have to worry about that.”

“River, you can’t always pay for my things,” Megan protested. River fought the urge to laugh, because of course, of course, this was all a performance, a show for his coworkers.

“I want to.” River ignored the sharp twist in his belly. “My treat.”

He accepted her hug, her bones pressing sharp through her clothes. With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine himself anywhere but there.

…

River sat on the conversation with his mother the rest of the day. He forced himself to be a version of his usual self for his customers, for his coworkers. Even when it got under his skin, he had learned this from his mother—the art of performing a lie.

Tomorrow, he and Erik had plans for lunch before their appointment. Instead of calling Val or even Steve, River turned his phone off and sketched draft after draft of potential tattoos until he felt satisfied. The fleeting wish that he could call Erik, a small fantasy that they had that kind of relationship, crossed his mind as he fell asleep. But River knew he couldn’t afford to put his heart in someone else’s hands again.

…

“I know this is kind of hipster-ish,” River said. Erik sat across from him at the table they’d snagged by the window. “But I had a deep waffle craving.”

Erik’s eyes flicked around the eatery. “It’s…bright.”

Sweet Iron was small, catering to those who loved a good, unusual twist on classic street waffles. A long room boasting white tables, large windows, and orange accents, it was bright. They’d hit a perfect spot in the day, after the morning rush and too soon for traditional lunch.

“I know. Trust me, the food is worth it,” River said. “Wait—assuming you like waffles?”

“Yes, River. I like waffles.” Erik smiled, wry and intimate. River looked away, raw from a sleepless night, stiff in his smiles. Relaxed movement and projected ease were harder with Erik than he anticipated.

River had gotten them both coffee, giving Erik time to ponder his choices.

Erik cocked his head. “Basil on a waffle?”

“Trust me,” River said. “Somehow, it’s delicious.”

“So, then.” Erik turned toward him. He propped his chin on his hand, gaze roving from River’s mouth to his eyes. “Are you a sweet or savory guy?”

River licked his lips. He touched the back of Erik’s hand. “Both.” A breath of desire, a quiet intimacy, shimmered between them. River blinked and looked away, shredding it apart.

“Tell me what you want. I’ll order it for you.”

“Thanks,” River said. It was a date kind of thing to do, and River let the warmth curl in his stomach, told his fears to stop speaking over his enjoyment of this man and these moments. “Goat cheese, hazelnut, and honey.”

Erik wrinkled his nose but nodded.

By the time they were cutting into their food, River had managed to quell his anxiety and focus on Erik, who was eating a ridiculously sweet waffle—brûléed bananas, salted caramel, and what looked like a vat of whipped cream. Erik caught River’s smirk, and before he could dodge, scooped up some whipped cream and smeared it on River’s nose.

“Ugh, oh my God, you’re such a child,” River gasped through laughter and wiped his nose. Erik leaned over and brushed a thumb along his cheekbone. Pretense or not, it was unexpected affection—too much and perfect. Anxiety reared back, noxious and consuming.

River ached to trust moments like these. Instead, ghosts haunted all of his hollow spaces. They whispered, wearing Brigid and Megan’s voices.

No. Right now, River was going to eat his lunch. He was going to savor this moment, and he was going to smile until it felt real.

…

“So, I have a few ideas.” River flipped nervously through his sketchbook. Keyed up and twitchy, he couldn’t wait to start on the piece. To have something to focus on—the soothing buzz of the machine, the unfurling of ink on fresh skin.

“Yeah?” Erik shifted on his stool. He seemed keyed up as well. River wanted to touch him, to stroke his flanks, settle them both. Instead, he showed Erik his ideas for the tattoo.

“This would be a big one if you want it where I imagined.”

Erik huffed out a laugh. Genuine, but still off, as if he’d been absorbing River’s mood at lunch. There was something else, though. Something River could sense from their texts, from their limited interactions all week. “I like that,” Erik said. “That you want to put something on me. That it’s yours.”

River cleared his throat when too much filled it. What are we doing? “It would start here.” He stood to touch Erik’s shoulder. He traced its path. “And end here. You okay with doing the ribs some?”

“Yeah,” Erik said. Last River saw him, he wasn’t bruised there. He hadn’t fought since then, he didn’t think.

“These are my two favorites. This one”—River flipped to his actual favorite—“really features the head and the wings. The tail, curving like this, would frame the rest of your back so the contrast would be really defined.”

“I like it, too. But…”

River held himself still. Erik was a friend—more than—which changed the dynamic between artist and client. He worked hard not to cross any lines, to let Erik think through what he might be imagining.

“Could the tail be longer?” He gestured to his side. “Kind of snaking along the ribs farther?”

River flipped to a new page and did a fast and dirty outline.

Erik nodded. “Yeah, like that. Is that balanced?”

“I think it’ll look great. Lots of ribs, though.”

“I can take it,” Erik said. Confidence smudged the edges under the words.

River met his eyes. He tried not to mind the way his body flushed. “I know,” he said. It was almost lost in the chatter of other artists working, the relentless grind of tattoo machines, the throbbing club music Cheyenne inexplicably had going today, that the quiet acknowledgment took Erik a moment to process. River knew the look in his eye, slippery with threat and desire.

…

“You said this one poisons everything it touches, right?” River paused to wipe blood away from the outline he worked near Erik’s spine. Erik grunted but didn’t speak. The tattoos were meant as rewards—or so Erik had led him to believe. River wasn’t unfamiliar with the language of self-punishment. He was grown in it, with it sewed into him.

River waited, but Erik remained silent, face turned away and resting against the headrest. River wanted to smooth a palm down the center of his back, to unlock him. A heavy instinct that something was wrong plagued him. Like River, Erik seemed determined to carry it in silence.

And that was the rub of it. The whatever it was, whatever they were. Not just for Erik’s secrets, which River knew he kept. But for them.

“Will you come to my place after this?” Erik’s voice was sweeter than normal. Gentler.

River cleared his throat and resumed tracing the transfer lines. He wasn’t sure he was ready for the answers to those questions, anyway. River did casual often, and he sensed that Erik did it almost exclusively, but in his bones, he knew this wasn’t casual. He was certain for himself but wondered if Erik realized it yet. Whether River should force it, and what forcing it might do for someone as skittish about intimacy as Erik. River was unfamiliar with the kind they seemed to have, how it felt with Erik. But he knew it was there. They laughed together at odd times. Erik touched him without thinking, brushing his hand against River’s when they walked or a palm on his neck while they ate takeout on the couch. River leaned into Erik’s silences, but in them, felt at home. This—them—wasn’t just explosive sex, even if it was the best sex River had ever had.

In it, there were moments of kindness and comfort.

This silence had a different shape. Something was wrong. River was trained in making things better, but he’d yet to crack that part of Erik open. Anxiety wound through his ribs, the snaking tail of a dragon. He put his palm on Erik’s untouched shoulder. He couldn’t help himself. I haven’t been poisoned, the touch said. I trust you when you touch me.

Erik twitched and sighed and turned his face back toward River. His smile was blurry, hazed, and in that quiet space clients sometimes slipped into during long sessions.

“Yeah, I’ll come over after this is done,” River said.

Erik closed his eyes.

…

“This is my place. Hovel. Disaster zone?” Erik gestured to the bed and couch with a swing of his arm. River smiled at the pretense of joking.

“Easy access to food. That’s a win right there,” River said.

Erik’s place was small but spare. Basic furniture, but not many personal touches. A gym bag cluttered the entrance to the apartment, and clothes draped over the small couch. This wasn’t a home; it was a landing spot with ease of escape. The most personal it got was a three-quarters full bookshelf by the television.

“Want a drink?” Erik tapped River’s hand.

“Sure, whatever you’re having.” River let himself be touched with an easy smile. He wandered as Erik moved around the galley kitchen. Crime and mystery novels mixed with books on fitness, on training, about the history of differing fight styles. Dust covered the unused surfaces, and on one, an unmarked book lay on its side. When River picked it up, pictures fluttered out. “What’s this?”

Erik was young in the one he grabbed first, with a smile in his eyes that was utterly unrecognizable, as if its presence on the face he knew was an impossibility. His arms wound over the shoulders of a beautiful young woman with jet-black hair and several facial piercings. Her head rested on the swell of Erik’s shoulder, and next to Erik was a shorter boy. Thin, one hand flashing an ironic peace sign with one hand and a middle finger with the other. His smile was trouble and youth. His eyes were a piercing ice-blue.

“What’s wh—” Erik stepped behind him, and even out of sight, River could read the ratcheting tension in the room. “It’s nothing.” He took the picture from River, bent to pick up the others, and stuffed them back into the book, then tossed it with casual carelessness back on the shelf. It was a performance, poorly executed. River knew better than to press. Later.

He sat next to Erik on the couch, accepting a cold beer and blindly staring at whatever TV show Erik had put on. River puzzled over the signs Erik had presented this last week, over the vibrations of near fear coming from him. He tuned in with a sharp look at Erik.

“Alien hunters?” River didn’t have to force the smile. He knew how to build bridges once he got out of his own way.

Erik’s answering smile was small and sheepish. “I know it’s not real, but it’s fun. Escapism, I guess.”

“I like that.” He took Erik’s hand, and slowly, under Erik’s guarded gaze, kissed it. Erik didn’t move. River bit, slightly, and smiled when Erik shivered. “Do you want it, too, then?” River asked against Erik’s palm.

Erik watched him. “Want what?”

“To be hurt.” River slid his other hand over Erik’s shoulder, where his tattoo was freshly wrapped, in the twilight, tender aftermath of art.

“Hurting is hurting. I’m used to it.” Erik’s eyes proved his mouth a liar, shaded like confusion, maybe apprehension. River was seeing something in Erik that he’d been feeling blindly for. He climbed into Erik’s lap.

“You’re used to violence. That wasn’t what we did together. That’s not how you hurt me.” River erased the tight line of Erik’s lips, rubbing his thumb against them hard, pushing them against Erik’s teeth. He wasn’t careful with the healing cut at the corner.

Erik shook his head. It wasn’t a denial, but a question.

“C’mon.” River stood and pulled Erik by the hand. He allowed River to undress him. His passivity was wary. Watchful. The gaze of a man on the skittish verge of trust. River knelt to guide his feet up and out of his pants. From his knees, Erik was impossibly tall. River let his nails bite, raising red trails behind him, laddering up Erik’s thighs. He placed a soft kiss on Erik’s cock, and then dug his nails into the meat of his firm ass. An almost unbearable tenderness swelled in River’s chest.

“On the bed,” River said from Erik’s hip. River kissed the bruising mark his teeth and lips had left. Erik’s stomach clenched under River’s splayed fingers when he laid him out on the white sheets. The shadow of an old bruise painted Erik’s collarbone.

“Does this help?” River pinched and then twisted Erik’s nipple

“I told you—”

“You’re a fighter. I know.” River kissed him then, as gently as he could. More gently than Erik wanted, he thought. He kissed Erik’s neck, where his pulse throbbed, and then, with all the sweetness he knew Erik feared, his injury. Erik squirmed away and closed his eyes. He tried to get his hands under River’s shirt.

“Look at me,” River said. He pressed two fingers against the bruise. Erik arched into the touch. River framed his neck, the lovely symmetry of Erik’s bones under his palms. His thumbs fit beautifully into the groove at the base of Erik’s throat.

Erik looked at him, all blown pupils and worried desire. More pressure on a fresh bruise and Erik whimpered.

“I need you here with me,” River said. His kiss was rough, too rough for the push of emotions Erik roused, not hard enough for what Erik needed.

“I am,” Erik breathed. His hands curled around River’s hips. River sat back to pull his shirt off, then shimmied out of his pants.

“Turn over,” River said. He didn’t want Erik’s back against the sheets for too long. He smoothed the edge of the bandage where it was curling away. “What’s your word?”

“I don’t need one,” Erik gritted out.

“I do,” River said, pressing it quietly into his skin, letting the words linger and hoping Erik heard what he was pleading for. We both need to hurt and be hurt. Let me give that to you.

“Fuck, uh—” Erik shuddered when River’s hands wandered farther. “I don’t know. Sh-Shakespeare.”

River pressed a smile against his shoulder, cupped a hand between Erik’s legs and pooled lube—so much and too much and enough to make a mess. There was no ceremony as he fumbled for a condom and pressed his fingers, then himself, in. It was fast enough to make Erik hiss and squirm, inciting delicious sensory confusion—pleasure, pain, something that lived between the two—that River didn’t always want but understood the hunger for. Erik’s fingers curled around the edge of his mattress. He couldn’t hold out in silence long. He resisted breaking, the moment he surrendered into exposed nerves and heart and want.

River spread his knees, wrapped one hand over Erik’s shoulder, and gripped. He bit the back of Erik’s neck hard and moaned the whole time Erik came. River’s name was on his lips. River in broken syllables and his shredding voice, River in his fear and vulnerability.

After, he let River clean him up. Tracked River’s movements through the room. Rolled into River’s space in his bed and somehow gathered his larger body into the frame of River’s arms.