See you tomorrow? Is she out of her goddamn mind? In what world does she think I’m going to bed and will just see her tomorrow?
Vee
Indy is good. Still working.
Ryan
What the hell is so important that she needs to be working these kinds of hours? Did the airline do a pay cut?
No, but it’s also not my business to talk about. If she wants to tell you she will. Heading to bed. Love you.
I exhale a deep, resigned sigh.
Thanks for getting ahold of her. Love you too.
Indy’s obnoxious yellow curtains are pushed to the wall, letting Chicago’s midnight skyline filter into my living room. Stevie and Zanders’ penthouse is across the street, and I watch as their lights go out for the night.
I’m glad someone is getting some sleep because I’ll be sitting on this couch, wide awake until Indy comes home.
It’s 2:57 when the front door quietly opens, and I’m sitting in the living room like someone’s father, disappointed by a missed curfew.
“You’re awake?” Indy whispers as if there were someone asleep in this apartment.
“Clearly.”
Shedding her coat, she slips off her high-top white Converse, the ones that are covered in embroidered designs. “What’s wrong?”
I take a long sip of my scotch, shaking my head. “Nothing.”
“Okay. Want to try that again without lying this time?” She stands opposite me in the living room, her arms crossed over her chest, pushing her tits up in the most distracting way.
“I can’t say what’s wrong, otherwise, I’ll sound like a controlling dick.”
“Control is kind of your thing, Ryan. Are you upset because you had a bad game?”
Scoffing, I stand from the couch and head to the kitchen to rinse out my glass. “I don’t give a fuck about my game.”
She follows me, palms on the kitchen island opposite me. She’s wearing a pair of 90s denim jeans that seem too short on her long legs, but she of course, pulls off the flooded look in an intentional way. Her T-shirt is worn beyond belief, a soft pink cotton from an old-school Brittney Spears concert.
God, she’s fucking adorable and that pisses me off.
Because this version of her, the real one where she’s not putting on a show for my GM or her ex-boyfriend and his friends. The version where she’s not toning it down to be appropriate or appeasing. This is my version of her. The one where she’s comfortable and casual at home and I don’t want to share her.
“Then what’s wrong?” she presses.
I set my glass down on the drying rack, bracketing my hands on the edge of the sink as I exhale a deep breath. “I was thinking about you the whole game.”
“Aw, Ry.” A hand splays over her chest. “I’m flattered. Truly.”
“I’m not kidding, Blue. I don’t want you picking up and driving random strangers around.”
“Well, that’s not really your say, is it?”
“What if Ron Morgan called a rideshare and you happened to be his driver? How would we explain why you’re driving rideshares while your millionaire boyfriend is playing a game?”
“Okay.” Indy laughs. “The chances of that happening are almost nonexistent, so why don’t you tell me what your real issue is.”
Her brown eyes are soft with patience, not that I deserve it. I’m acting like a possessive caveman right now, but I don’t know how to fake it.
“I’m…I don’t know.” I look down at the sink where my knuckles are white with restraint. I haven’t cared about another person besides my sister in God knows how long and I have no idea how to feel or express it.
Her voice is kind. “You’re what, Ryan?”
“I’m…worried about you, Ind. I was worrying about you the whole game.”
Her lips lift mischievously, her tone teasing. “Ryan Shay, do you care about me?”
“No.”
“You care about me.”
“No, I don’t, but I’d rather you not get kidnapped while I’m playing a fucking basketball game.”
She moves her shoulders, dancing around the island. “Ryan Shay cares about me!”
“You’re annoying.”
Her hands go to her knees, and she sticks her ass out, twerking in my kitchen. “Yeah, but you still care about me.”
Shaking my head, I try my hardest not to laugh. “I’m going to bed.”
“Say it.”
“Not saying it.”
“Well clearly, words of affirmation are not your love language.”
I turn around to face her, continuing to walk backwards to my bedroom. “None of this has to do with love.”
“Ryan Shay cares about me!” Hands on her hips, she circles them, continuing to dance in my kitchen.
“How much caffeine did you have tonight? Jesus.”
“None. I’m high on life, baby!”
“You’re not paying rent anymore, by the way. So that should solve the whole driving random strangers home from the bars thing.”
Her dance moves halt. “Ryan!”
I roll my eyes. “I was saving it for you anyway. So just…put it towards whatever you’re saving for.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t.” I lean back on my bedroom door, not quite going inside yet. “Knowing you’re not out there alone driving drunk dudes home at two AM is worth far more to me than five hundred dollars a month. Besides, you should probably start coming to my games when you’re in town. You are the point guard’s girlfriend after all.”
“I’m not going to cry over this.”
“Congratulations.” I motion to Britney Spears on my twenty-seven-year-old roommate’s chest. “Cute shirt by the way.”
“You know it’d be a whole lot cheaper to just tell me you care about me.”
“Good night, you weirdo. Oh, and by the way, the dinner with the Morgans tomorrow night is an hour outside of town and we’re spending the night. So, pack something to sleep in.”
“Do footy pajamas work?”
“Yes, please. I want nothing more than to share a room with you while you’re wearing fucking footy pajamas.”
I go to close my door, but she stops me, putting her hand out and blocking me.
“What happened?” She nods towards my shoulder.
The ice has long melted, but I’ve yet to unwrap the pack from my sore muscles.
“Nothing. I’m just banged up from the game.”
“Can I see?”
Hesitating, unsure of what she’s looking for, I cautiously unwrap the ice from my shoulder and put the pack in the sink. Reaching up, Indy’s dainty fingers run the length of my shoulder blade, her thumb following behind and digging in.
I wince, pulling away slightly.
“Ryan, you’re really tight.”
“I’m fine.”
Indy’s hand glides down my bare bicep and forearm until it slides into mine. She begins pulling me to the couch. “Take a seat on the floor. Let me rub this out.”
Let me rub this out.
Jesus. Inhaling a deep breath, I pray away the erection. Ever since the banquet, I can’t stop remembering how good she felt to touch, how natural it felt to have her with me. The fantasies have been on overdrive, and I’ve done everything in my power to will them away, but how the fuck am I supposed to do that with her soft hands rubbing my skin?