False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) (9 page)

He opens his mouth to say something, then quickly shuts it. Emotion flickers behind his eyes. Anger? No, I don't think that's it. He looks hurt.

I turn away from him, heading back toward the living room to grab my bag. I shove my phone into my jeans a little harder than I should. Fuck him for making me feel bad about him feeling bad.

"Thanks for the couch," I say as I head for the door.

It sounds like he says 'any time' as I let myself out, and that makes it even worse.

I
t takes
me too long to head back to Erickson’s place.

Considering I knew right after I told him off that I was in the wrong, anything longer than five minutes is probably way too long. But this seems to be the way of things between us. He does something harmless, or at least something that doesn’t mean whatever I think it means. I blow it way the fuck out of proportion and assume he’s someone he isn’t. And then I act like a complete dick to him for no reason at all.

So far, that’s been followed by an apology. I know I owe him that much, but that’s not why I’ve made the trip over to his townhouse late Sunday evening. It’s not why I’m sitting in his driveway, wishing his car wasn’t here. Wishing I had some excuse not to do this right now.

An apology’s not a big thing. Seems I have to give out a lot of them these days, so I’m used to choking back my pride to get out a few words. But Erickson deserves more than an apology from me, even if it’s sincere. He deserves an explanation.

I scrub my fingers through my short hair, glancing at myself in the rear view mirror. I pretty much look like I feel, and I figure it isn’t going to get any better from me just sitting here. It’s more than a guilty conscience. I really don’t like the idea of Erickson and I just going back to what we were before. Acquaintances. Rivals. Whatever.

Maybe I’m just in a sentimental mood, but I could use a friend. And if he’s actually able to forgive me and maybe even understand, then he could probably be as good a friend as Jason was for me.

Getting out of my car, I head up to Erickson’s front door, trying not to think about how fucking awful my car looks against his; trying not to see it as a metaphor and a sign that I shouldn’t even bother with this, because in our potential friendship, I feel like the rickety-ass sedan.

I knock on the door, and it isn’t long before I hear Erickson’s voice on the other side. His shoes scuff against the hardwood, and the doorknob turns without incident, proof that he didn’t lock it.

“Oh, hey,” he says, and while he tries for a smile, everything about it is tentative, as if he’s waiting to see what version of me he’s getting today.

Truth be told, I’m waiting on that, too.

“I was just screwing around,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to gesture toward the TV. I look behind him and see a game paused. It looks like some kind of shooter. “How are things with your mom?”

“Same as always,” I say, and then because that apparently isn’t bad enough, I add, “She’s still getting fucked over by her landlord and her boss.”

Erickson’s smile is fake and wary, and I already feel like I need to just shove my shoe right into my mouth.

“Sorry, man. That’s… that’s what I came here to say. I don’t even know why I do this shit.”

I do know why. It’s because it’s the same rhetoric I’ve heard my whole life, and if I beat everybody else to it, it can’t hurt as much.

Except that’s bullshit. It still hurts, and somehow me being the one to bring it up first just makes it worse.

“You don’t have to apologize to me. You were right. I don’t have any idea what it’s like.”

His words catch me off guard, and before I can even come to terms with what he’s saying, he continues, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck in a gesture that looks ridiculous on a guy his size, but oddly endearing.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I want to be able to be a better friend to you, you know? And… I mean, I wanted to tell you that I don’t see what other people see. I don’t see you as black—”

“But I am black,” I say, feeling that rising sense of caution taking root in me.

This conversation could easily lead us back to where we were this morning. I should probably cut him off, but he seems really eager to get this out.

“Right. You are black. And I’m… not. I’m never going to know what it’s like to be you. But I still want to support you. I just… I’m probably going to say and do some stupid shit sometimes, and I don’t know that I can blame all of it on my upbringing.”

I’ve had this conversation with Jason before. Not this exactly; Jason’s never really wanted to be on the nose with it, and neither have I. But he’s always been in the color-blind category. It’s easy to see why. The guy can make friends with anybody. That’s just how he is.

The only thing is… I’m not anybody. The things I’ve lived through are different than the things Jason’s lived through. But explaining privilege isn’t really on my list of safe topics as far as friends are concerned, especially friends who treat me like a normal human being to start with.

I let out a sigh and scrub my hand through my hair again. “You didn’t do anything wrong this morning, man.”

I look around, and realize that while we’ve been talking, the little neighborhood Erickson lives in has come alive. There are people out jogging, walking their dogs, taking their babies out in strollers. Jesus. It’s like somebody flipped a switch out here.

“Can I come in?” I ask, not wanting to have this conversation in the middle of the street.

“Yeah, of course.”

He steps away from the door and I close it behind me, following him through the narrow hall. He stops off in the kitchen and grabs himself a Coke.

“You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

I take a seat at the island. Erickson pops open the top on his Coke and takes a sip, then leans back against the counter. There’s a good bit of space between us, and that’s probably for the best. I need some breathing room to get this out.

“Here’s the thing: What you overheard yesterday? That’s not some new development. My mom—shit, my whole family—has been getting screwed for as long as I can remember.”

Erickson doesn’t say anything, he just nods slowly to let me know he’s listening.

“And the only reason people don’t treat me like shit is because they’re afraid of me. Because I happen to have a talent for knocking people to the ground.”

Erickson’s lips press together in a thin line, and soft wrinkles etch their way into his forehead, but he still doesn’t say anything.

“I come here and I work my ass off during the school year, I work my ass off at practice and every game we play. And it’s just… I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like that’s all I’m ever going to be. My mom’s been working two jobs since my dad died, and here I am just worrying about football. Just feels like my family’s always going to be treading water. And I guess when I start feeling that way, I figure…”

I look away from him, turning my attention to a picture on the wall. My eyes aren’t focused, my mind is distant, and I have no idea what the picture is even of.

“I figure everybody else sees me that way, too. That’s why I keep jumping down your throat. It’s not fair to you, and I don’t want this to be between us.”

He still doesn’t say anything, and eventually I look over at him. At first I think I see pity in his expression, and maybe there’s a bit of it. But it’s quickly overshadowed by something else.

“I’m never going to know what it’s like to be you, but I know what I see. You’re a good guy. A great guy. You’re smart and funny and you put your family and friends first. I can tell you’d do anything for your mom. All of that is a lot more important than being able to play ball.”

I just stare at him for a long time, and that weird sensation of being outside of myself continues. Jason was one of my best friends, but even he never got it. Not really. I don’t think he ever realized that I needed to be told… that I was something other than my performance on the football field.

I don’t think I even realized I needed that until Erickson said it.

And it shouldn’t come from him. As much as I said I believe he has his own problems, too, despite his family’s wealth, it’s hard to think of someone like him understanding. But I can see he does. He looks about ready to fight me on it if I disagree with him.

Somehow that’s what my beleaguered brain seizes on, and I start to laugh.

“Dude, don’t make me smack you.”

That just makes me laugh even harder. He stands over by the counter, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set in a rigid line. His brows are down, but I can see the slightest twitch at the corner of his lip, like he’s not sure if he should be offended, or if he should join in on whatever the joke is.

“Sorry,” I say, finally catching my breath. “You just looked like you were going to jump my shit if I disagreed with you, and then you said what you did, and… it’s been a long day, man.”

Erickson just grins. “I will jump your shit, so don’t try me.” His expression sobers to a smile, then it turns into something serious again. “I mean it, though. If people can’t see that, fuck them.”

Erickson sets down his can and in a few of his long strides, the island isn’t between us anymore. He stands in front of me, and instead of being eye to eye like we usually are, I’m a little bit taller than him because of the chair. This close, I can see his eyes more clearly. They aren’t really blue. Not solid blue, anyway. They’re flecked with a color so pale it could be grey, and a bit of light green, too.

He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. It’s a gesture of comfort, but from the moment he touches me, my body just sort of lights up. I become instantly aware of how close he is, and my heart pounds in my chest. For the second time today, I forget how to breathe. My mind starts spinning this crazy scenario.

He’s going to kiss me.

And I can’t explain why, but I think I want him to. I have to know what all this awareness is about; to follow it through to some conclusion because it’s tearing away at me, gnawing on the ends of my already frayed nerves.

I can hear when his breath hitches. I see the exact moment when his gaze strays from my eyes, to my lips, before it flicks back again. The very tip of his tongue darts out over his own lips, and I feel heat pool low in my belly.

But he doesn’t close the distance between us. He doesn’t lean up and cover my mouth with his.

My fingers curl around the edge of the stool. I feel like I’m being eaten alive from the inside out by a deep, aching want; a mounting energy that’s threatening to explode. If he isn’t going to make the decision for me, then…

My lips come down hard on his. There’s nothing subtle or shy about it. It’s just my mouth against his, seeking something that I can’t really identify. I expect to feel absolutely nothing; just the physical sensation of our lips pressed together, but nothing deep enough to quell the urgent need inside of me.

But
nothing
is the last thing I feel.

The moment my lips touch his, that sense of awareness explodes in every cell of my body, lighting my skin on fire. My senses kick into overdrive, and what should just be something simple—probably not all that different from kissing anyone else—becomes insanely complex, sparking a chain reaction that wakes up my body, inch by inch.

I can feel his lips beneath mine, softer than I expected. I can also feel the slight prickle of the stubble I didn’t even see on his face. I can smell his aftershave and a bit of cologne, and I can taste him on my own lips.

None of that compares to the sound he makes when he realizes what I’ve done, though.

It’s a deep, desperate groan. The kind a guy makes when he’s hard as fuck and every little brush of attention just threatens to send him over the edge. And while it took him a moment to act, once he’s in, he’s all in. His hand grips the back of my head, pulling me harder into the kiss. When I slide off the stool and grab him, my hands fisting in his shirt, he presses his body against mine.

With every second that ticks by, I feel like I’m getting more and more drunk, lost in the sensation of the moment. My brain’s switched off completely. All I can do is feel, and decide I want more. More of his hard body against mine. More of his tongue sweeping into my mouth. More of his moans, more of his hips grinding against me.

My body responds in kind, and I go from nothing to painfully hard in what seems like no time at all. I’ve never really been one to think with my dick, but right now I can’t seem to get my brain to work.

I don’t know what drives me to do it, but my hands move down until I can get a grip on Erickson’s ass. Hard muscle greets me, and I use my leverage to pull him even closer to me, right where I want him, the firm ridge of his erection against mine.

“Oh, God,” he moans, his voice suddenly breathy in a way I’ve never heard before.

But he doesn’t grind against me again. He doesn’t reach for my belt. He doesn’t even go back to kissing me. Instead, he breaks away, and he’s practically panting when he speaks again.

“Hold up. This is… way too fast.”

I let out a ragged breath, and as I draw air back into my lungs, it seems to kickstart my brain. My actual brain, not the one in my dick that is all for continuing this reckless course of action. Once my thoughts catch up with the moment, I go perfectly still. My heartbeat is the only thing still fighting me, hammering out a rapid-fire beat.

What the fuck just happened?

One second, I was thinking of Erickson as a friend; somebody who could maybe understand me.

And the next second, I had my tongue down his throat and my hands on his ass.

Shit.

My fingers swipe over my hair, back and forth as if I’m going to be able to massage some sense into my head. Maybe it’s a valiant effort, but it sure as shit doesn’t work because the part of my body that’s rock hard and throbbing urgently still wants to get right back to it.

Right back to making moves on another guy.

Holy fuck.

“I have to…”

I gesture helplessly toward the door, all while still looking at Erickson. Mitch. I guess I shouldn’t think of him as Erickson anymore, considering…

Shit.

It doesn’t help that he gives me a half-smile, his way of saying ‘do what you gotta do, man.’ It also doesn’t help that the action draws my attention to his lips. They’re red and swollen from the kiss we just shared, and the rest of his face is flushed, too.

Even his eyes look different; darker around the pupils.

…And if I keep staring at him, I’m not going to make it out of the door.