Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
For a second, I might say he’s smiling.
If the slightest curl in one corner of his lips can be called that.
Then he glances away. “Think the coast is clear.”
And after a second’s hesitation, he slips from the curtain out of my grasp.
I follow, feeling happy.
And a little confused.
The two predominant feelings I always have around Diego.
It isn’t until long after departing the thunderstorm room that I remind myself what Diego said, that I ejaculated on that rug. I’m praying it was just him messing with me. But even after cleaning up in the bathroom—yes, we find one near the back door that we’d completely wandered right past on our way in—I still find exactly zero evidence that I came at all.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure he was messing with me.
By the time we make it back to the pavilion, the entire thing is over with, everyone just mingling at their tables, walking around.
Diego and I must share the same thought, because we avoid snaking our way through the crowd back to our table in the front, instead staying here at the entrance to the pavilion where less people are likely to interact with us. He doesn’t talk. I don’t either. We both have another drink in hand, but neither of us have taken the first sip.
I wonder if we should just leave, or if Diego is enjoying some kind of afterglow and actually likes being in the noise.
Maybe Diego wants to pick up where we left off.
In a place we won’t be interrupted. Such as one of our houses, perhaps. A convenient option, considering the proximity.
Or maybe that’s not where his mind is at all. Is this just Diego being Diego, or is there a reason he’s not talking? Is something on his mind that I should bring up? Would he even want to talk about it if there was?
But I guess I’m being kind of quiet, too. In my thoughts.
We could just be feeling the weight of what we did.
Together.
A little secret we’ll hopefully hold forever about our time in the thunderstorm room.
Maybe none of the noise right now can penetrate us. It’s like an armor now, shielding us from the bombs of laughter, chatter, and clanking glasses all around us.
Still. It wouldn’t hurt to say something.
“Um … hey, Diego …” I start.
That’s exactly when Lance appears, planting himself right in front of us.
Flat-faced.
Annoyed to no end.
“I waited,” he states coolly.
Shit. “I’m so sorry, Lance. We just—”
“—got lost on your way to the bathroom? You just missed the whole thing. Jimmy and Bobby’s dance number, too. It was to die for, by the way, Tanner was not exaggerating …”
“Lance …”
“Two seats left empty. Right by the stage. Perfect view.”
“I know.”
“I could’ve let Toby and Vann sit with us so they could be with their sister-from-another-mister Kelsey. But no,” he goes on, hand to his chest, “my considerate self held on to those seats for you and your neighbors’ nephew Derek because I thought maybe one of you got sick and needed longer.”
Not the time to correct the name. “I’m truly sorry. We got caught up, and truly, uh, got lost in that … that enormous—”
“Save it. I’m too mad. If you guys wanted to fuck, you could’ve waited until after the show at the very least.”
That stops me cold.
I can’t even speak.
“Oh, come on,” Lance says with a roll of his eyes. “Like I can’t read the pair of you and the sexual tension dripping off you two. Billy even said something was up during your last movie night, and that’s saying something, because he’s sometimes as dense as the pound cake he made me for my birthday, and—Y’know what? I can’t even.”
“H-Happy belated birthday?” I try.
“And now I’m supposed to go and talk business with Cass and meet this rich producer lady from Brookfield I heard is a piece of work, and I’m not even in the mood anymore.”
Lance walks away after that, leaving me in a total daze, drink almost spilling as my hand goes lopsided.
What was that about Billy? What did he even see? How does it have anything to do with Diego?
Why does it seem like Spruce is working overtime lately sticking its nose in my business?
“Dude seriously needs to get laid,” grunts Diego, his helpful observation, before finally kicking back his drink.
—16—
Diego
I drive us home in Wyatt’s car.
He had three more drinks.
Maybe four.
I’m not letting him behind any wheel tonight.
“He’ll get over it,” says Wyatt sleepily, head drooped back on the passenger seat.
It takes me a sec to realize he’s talking about his friend. “It isn’t his business what we were doing,” I say back. “And my name ain’t Derek.”
“I can’t believe I missed Jimmy’s dance.”
I don’t even know who Jimmy is or whether he was any of the people we met. “Someone probably recorded it.”