“Gabe has to bring his mother to a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday.”
My heart turns over. “Awww.”
Banks tilts his head. “You’ve got a soft spot for Gabe, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer, though I’m tempted to make a joke and blow off the question. “I feel differently about each of you, I guess.”
He zeroes in on those words, even though I can tell he’s striving for casual. “That’s the first time you’ve admitted to having feelings for us, one way or the other.”
“Don’t go planning the wedding.”
“Legally, I don’t think we could.”
“Thank God.”
Banks chuckles, but his expression is anticipatory. “Feelings. Say more.”
I roll my eyes, casting a glance over his shoulder to find Gabe and Tobias out of earshot, but watching us curiously. My body is still heavily under the influence of their presence, my nipples pebbled, back of my neck hot. I refuse to regret my hasty departure, though.
Not even a little bit.
Sure.
I let out a breath. “Gabe makes me wish for lazy Sunday mornings in bed with coffee and the smell of cinnamon in the kitchen. Sweet. Tobias is Saturday night. Strobe lights and moaning and…that tipsy feeling, like if you have one more drink, you’ll be sorry.”
“And me?”
“You are…” I swallow. Being open and honest to someone about how I feel on the inside is harder than I remember. I’ve been out of practice so long. “You’re real life. The place where I’m in my pattern and feel safe. You’re not a detour, you’re a path forward.”
It takes him a while to digest that, staring ahead at me on the windy, wrapper strewn street, sun dipping behind clouds and back out again.
Finally, he takes a slow stride forward. Another one. “I don’t mind being real life, Elise.” He reaches me, taking two fists of my coat, tugging me close and finally, finally, raking his hard mouth over mine. “But I need to know I make you escape, too.” He reaches into my coat and palms my breast, slowly twisting the material of my shirt for friction against my nipple. “I need to know you’ll come to me when you want your panties pulled down and those thighs spread open.”
My legs decide not to hold me up anymore and I sway against him.
“I would, I do,” I whimper, reminded just how easily he can blur my thoughts and have me speaking gibberish. “I will.”
“Will. I like that. Good.” His treatment of my mouth is tender, but hints at darker promises. “Come to the game, Elise.” His voice hitches slightly. “It’s important to me.”
The kiss winds on for so long, I don’t have the chance to answer until a minute later—and quite alarmingly, my heart does it for me. “Then I’ll be there.”
He strokes his thumb down the curve of my cheek, his smile fading gradually, before finally turning to leave. He looks back at me over his shoulder three times before getting into a parked town car that I didn’t notice before and driving away. Gabe waves at me while trudging toward the subway entrance across the street, watching me with a sheepish smile the whole way. And Tobias just kind of stands there, arms crossed, looking thoughtful as I enter my building.
As soon as I’m no longer with them, the last thirty minutes feels like a dream.
But it wasn’t—and I’m now in an active, real-life relationship with three men. Three. I must be suffering from temporary insanity. Hopefully it will pass soon.
The haphazard clunking in my ribcage tells me it won’t.
The fact that I miss them already does, as well.
My skin feels paper thin without them touching it.
“You’re in trouble, Elise,” I whisper, climbing the final stair.
When I reach my apartment, thankfully Shayna is on the phone. Still, she waggles her eyebrows at me as I hang up my coat and bypass her into my bedroom. I eye the manila envelope containing the photograph I took of Alexander and Crouch last night. There is a slight chance I could bring this to Karina tomorrow morning and earn myself a staff writer spot. But it’s very slight. There is a better chance she rains down Armageddon on my head.
I sit down on the edge of my bed, settling my laptop on my thighs and opening it.
There is a folder on the desktop labeled Alexander Crouch where I compiled all of my notes on the rejected story, but I bypass it now in favor of pulling up the Google homepage.
Before I can guess my own intentions, I’ve typed the words “New York City journalism schools” into a search engine and hit return. The first search result is Columbia. Uh, yeah. The Ivy League won’t be happening any time soon. There are several more realistic schools, however. Hunter. Hofstra. Baruch. All a subway ride away.