I finally turn to look at him and see sad blue eyes staring back at me. He doesn't look away, though, and I can tell he has something he wants to say.
"If I were looking for someone, I'd look for someone just like you," he admits, and it feels like another arrow to my defenses. He's been thinking of me outside of our sessions. He's been thinking of me as someone other than an escort for hire.
I hesitate by the door, unsure of where this leaves us. I know I have to leave, but something feels unfinished between us. It's like we started a conversation that we don't have the time to finish. It's the dreaded 'what are we' conversation that I simply don't have the answers to. Right now we're client and escort. What we will be, I don't know.
Instead, I walk back to the bed, grip him by the back of the neck again, and drop a kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter shut as he absorbs the affection.
And before he can say another word, I turn on my heel and run out of the hotel room like a coward.
Chapter thirteen
Gareth
It's still early in the night after Trey leaves, so after I've collected myself, I shower, slip back into my clothes, and walk to our old high school to my weekly AA meeting.
I haven't been coming since I started things with Trey because I don't know how much I'm ready to confess, yet. My sponsor, Tammy, has been checking in, though, so she knows I'm good.
After Trey ran out of the hotel room like his ass was on fire, this stupid, niggling hope has latched onto my heart like a leech and isn't letting me go.
Why would he have needed to bring up that boundary between us if he didn't also feel like this could be something more? I swear, he wasn't even looking at me when he said it, like he was saying it to himself.
That's crazy, though.
Right?
Then there was that traitorous kiss to my forehead. And such a simple, quick press of skin on skin gave that hopeful leech wings.
That’s a mental image.
I walk over to the folding table in the old gym of our high school, and I'm assaulted with memories - both good and bad - of my teenage years. Hormones, BO, poor decisions. Maybe that's what high school is really for. Not for learning algebra and running an eight-minute mile, but for making mistakes.
Being mean to your high school crush is a lot safer than being mean to your boss or coworker as an adult.
Misplaced anger and frustration should stay in high school. Honestly, no one really enjoyed their teenage years, did they?
I fill the sad styrofoam cup with the watered down coffee from the carafe and slide into the folding chair closest to the bleachers.
I nod a tense greeting to the others as they fill in. The relationship I have with these people is strange. I don't know what they do for a living, what their family looks like, what their dreams are, but I know their most shameful secrets, their daily struggles, and how badly their soul aches to heal.
And they know all of that about me, too.
Every meeting is the same as much as it's different. Some people don't share, others do. Some share little wins, some share failures. It's a way to be vulnerable during the hardest thing we've all ever done in a safe and non-judgmental environment.
Terry, a heavier, older man with the kindest eyes I've ever seen, is our leader. When the heavy doors close, signifying the beginning of our session, he smiles at all of us. I'm pretty sure he plays Santa at the local mall.
I listen, giving eye contact and respect to everyone who shares, even if I'm not actively listening. I smile at all the right times and nod when it's expected.
My head, however, is back in that hotel room, replaying soft touches, grunts, sighs, tongues, lips, and hands.
And the enormous wolf tattoo that spanned his entire back. I hadn't seen it fully the first time we were together, but when heturned to collect his clothes tonight, I saw it. It's a stunning work of art. Its black, geometric lines are also difficult to see on his bronze skin, but it was the eyes that stood out the most. They were almost an unearthly blue. A shade you'd find just before the sun rose, or in the depths of the sea.
I don't know who his tattoo artist is, but holy shit, they're talented. The wolf's eyes looked alive - like they were actually peering into your soul.
And just as quickly as I saw it, he threw his shirt back on and hid it from me.
I want to get a better look next time.
"Gareth, anything you'd like to share this week?" Terry asks.